


My Big Fat Gay French Wedding

by Scrabble



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Anal Sex, Aramis is an idiot, Athos is marginally less grumpy, Clothed Sex, Constance is long suffering, Fluff, Frotting, M/M, Modern AU, Porthos despairs of them all, There's a wedding, a whole lot of resolved sexual tension, but in the consensual manner, d'Artagnan is a brat, it's very consensual, quite a lot of swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-13 07:06:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 25,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1217095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrabble/pseuds/Scrabble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ostensibly written from this prompt on the kinkmeme:<br/>"Aramis/Porthos - It's May 2013 and same-sex marriage is finally legal in France. (Could be proposal-fic, wedding night-fic, "we're actually NOT getting married-fic" or Athos the worlds worst wedding-planner fic.)"</p><p>It's fluff, romance, ridiculous friendship and a chateau that's falling down.</p><p>******NOW COMPLETE******</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Favour

**Author's Note:**

> I went with a combo of all of the options available in the prompt, although not necessarily in that order, and then it kind've...ran away with me because I'm physically incapable of writing anything short *kaff* Also, I made the cardinal error of falling in love with them all like this and now I know I'll be heartbroken when this is finished and I can't fill my every spare minute writing their group idiocy anymore. C'est la vie d'un écrivain de fanfic! Oh yeah, it dragged my long disused French out too.

The urge to interrupt him before he had finished was overwhelming but Aramis manfully resisted on the basis that he was actually quite intrigued as to where the hell Athos was going to go with this. That, and he might have been struck speechless…  
   
“You want…I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to run that one past me again…” he managed, sprawling deeper into the remarkably uncomfortable café chair and propping chin in hand. He had a distinct feeling he should really attempt some grasp of the situation, Athos was looking worryingly straight faced, even for him.  
  
It wasn’t especially unusual for them all to get dragged into half baked schemes, granted, but usually, they didn’t come from arguably the most sensible of their number. The fact that this one was being presented BY aforementioned _less_ batshit crazy one, with both an utterly straight face and Athos’ Serious Voice was, frankly, starting to cause something that felt rather close to foreboding to settle in Aramis’ gut. It didn’t mix well with the cheap vino/cheese toasty combo he’d just inhaled either.  
  
Whoever said there was no such thing as a free lunch was absolutely right and had evidently MET Athos.  
  
“I’m asking a favour of my closest friends, that’s all…” Athos was employing the puppy eyes. This was not a good sign.  
  
“A favour…”  
  
“Yes. Just one little thing, tiny really, insignificant in the grand scheme of life…”  
  
“It’s funny…” Aramis began, fixing the face opposite with what he hoped was a stern expression and was probably closer to boggling disbelief,  
“Because it sounded like you just asked me to fake marrying someone so you could convince people that _shed_ you call a house is the perfect venue for their own weddings…”  
  
“CHATEAU, Aramis, chateau…”  
  
“Half the roof is missing and it’s glory days are a good hundred years behind it, wasn‘t there a fire or something?!”  
  
“I did not hear you complaining when I gave you all rooms there!”  
  
“It has _17 bedrooms_ , you were not hurting for space, you needed the help…and stop trying to distract me from this whole…what the hell are you asking ME to do this for anyway?!”  
  
At this, thoroughly VALID question, Athos shiftily cleared his throat, eyes darting down to where nimble fingers were absently fiddling with his coffee spoon and the low level feeling of foreboding increased within Aramis’ less than content belly,  
“Because I need a gay couple, it’s a new and untapped market and I already convinced Constance to let me use the photo‘s you took from her wedding…”  
  
“ _Seriously?!_ That’s your reasoning?! You do it then! Get d'Artagnan to pose by that hideous pond you call a lake with you looking on adoringly, I’ll even take the photos for you since I‘m already apparently providing free services!”  
  
That, he decided with a momentary lift of the undeniable sense that something was about to go horrendously wrong, would actually be not only hilarious, but also serve to work rather nicely in his portfolio! A win/win situation for all involved, surely…even if it was a bit weird imagining any one of them MARRIED, even the pair that practically were already!  
  
Good god he was simply not drunk enough for this.  
  
“I can’t be running a wedding day if I’m IN IT, Aramis! Don’t be ridiculous, and anyway, d'Artagnan doesn’t want to be in the photo’s after that time with the teenaged girls and the stalking…”  
  
Snorting into the glass he’d returned to out of desperation to escape his currently altogether too sober state, Aramis grinned at the slightly uncomfortable expression gracing Athos’ usually impassive face,  
“Ahh yes, what was it again? _‘Babe-t’Agnan et les Mousqu’queers’_ …rather creative, I thought!”  
  
Across the table, Athos settled for merely rolling his eyes and pointing his spoon, epee like, at his friend’s chuckling visage,  
“Oh shut up, he can’t help looking young…”  
  
“Or pretty…”  
  
“Or pre…NOT HELPING, Aramis…”  
  
“And yet, so accurate! Besides, he’s got nothing to be ashamed of, nothing wrong with being pretty in your youth, rather reminds me of myself…”  
  
“Your vast ego aside…” Athos was clearly determined to forge on through Aramis’ very finest deflection techniques if the pained sigh and pinch of forefinger and thumb to the bridge of broken nose was anything to go by. That was definitely a VERY bad sign…  
“You’d barely have to do anything, just stand about looking happy, enjoying the free bar…”  
  
Aramis paused, watching his friend fidget uncomfortably under the scrutiny and finding himself weakening slightly at the sight. It was no secret between them that the wreck of a house they all shared was costing a small fortune to keep upright, despite them all chipping in when they could, but Aramis was coming to realise that perhaps the constant worry of holding on to the family chateau had been taking a far greater toll on Athos than any of them had imagined. God knew the man had to be desperate to ever bring himself to ASK for the help any one of their group of friends would usually have more than willingly given him, this discussion must have been costing Athos dearly in pride terms.  
  
Resigned sigh escaping his lips, Aramis felt any resolve to avoid this whole ridiculous situation crumble in the face of a friendship so deep and longstanding, he didn’t even remember a time when they’d NOT all been together. Oh this was going to end so poorly…  
  
“Alright, I’ll be your dashing groom but you owe me…so much booze, and the good shit, none of this house red crap…” he muttered, nodding dismissively in the direction of the less than expensive, yet very empty bottle in the middle of their table.  
  
That his words were greeted with the incredibly rare sight of a blindingly bright smile from Athos merely served to cement the decision in his mind, even if that was actually also a worrying prospect in and of itself since that kind of maniacal grin was usually reserved for the moments they were all three sheets to the wind and about to do something they were going to heavily regret in the morning…  
  
“Who am I supposed to be marrying then? And it better not be ANYONE I’ve been out with before because that way lies madness…”  
  
“Don’t worry, it isn’t. And believe me, I had to scour the streets to find someone who fitted that bill…” Athos replied, grin still firmly in place in a way that suggested he’d really not expected to get away with this in the slightest and it was all going a great deal better than he’d imagined it likely to get.  
  
“Slut shaming will get you nowhere fast, sunshine…” Aramis smirked with the rise of a brow, unable to resist the infectious happiness coming off his friend. Alright, so he’d have to dress up and play the part for a day, that wasn’t the end of the world, who knew, maybe if there were some paid guests, he might even get a date out of it…  
  
Athos settled for merely waving a dismissive hand at the mere idea, too caught up in his machinations to even contemplate a pause to dignify the statement,  
“It had to be someone we knew really well and could trust, so I asked Porthos.”  
  
For a moment, the variety of stunned pause best reserved for soap operas and Jerry Springer filled the air before the screeching horror within him escaped Aramis in a strangled version of his usually smooth voice,  
“And he said _YES_?”  
  
“Of course he said yes! Why wouldn’t he?”  
  
There really should be no possible way this entire conversation was taking place, Aramis decided, reduced to little more than shocked, silent blinking as the concept settled into his suddenly very clear brain. Why wouldn’t Porthos, the gentle giant, protective and loyal to a fault have immediately said yes to whatever half arsed, hairbrained scheme any one of them had come up with? He was practically allergic to the word NO where Athos and a good lark were concerned, after all, and this, with all the emotional baggage of a long and rock solid friendship wouldn’t even have caused the batting of a lid from him…especially if…  
  
Aramis sputtered in disbelief for a moment longer before his eyes narrowed, realisation sinking into his post lunch, slow brain and he leaned over the table to point an accusing finger at the sneaky bastard who’d lured him out and ambushed him,  
“You sneaky little shit! You agreed just like the rest of us, anything we said yes to whilst drunk isn’t binding and you know it!”  
  
“He was not _drunk_ , thank you very much!” Athos replied quickly, his eyes immediately dropping to his coffee cup as he added as quietly as possible,  
“He just didn’t ask quite as many questions as you when I asked him for a favour…”  
  
Eyes widening as the moment dawned, crystal and clear above him, Aramis reached a shaking hand for the near empty glass of wine he’d been nursing over lunch, knocking back the remainder of it in a hearty gulp that did essentially nothing to still that nagging sense that things were about to go very, very pear shaped,  
“You didn’t tell him what you wanted him to do…of _course_ you didn’t! He’s the straightest man we know, getting him to pose as one half of a gay wedding is going to put a serious damper on his social life, Athos…” he managed, hopelessly grasping at straws in what was undoubtedly a futile attempt to escape the whole, hideous mess.  
  
Could it have possibly been ANY worse?! He mused, longing for the floor to develop a sudden sinkhole beneath him just so he could get out now. Of ALL the people in Paris Athos could have found to pretend to marry Aramis…why did it have to be the one that Aramis had inexplicably managed to hide a lifelong set of what could only be described as _FEELINGS_ for?! Inwardly, he cringed at the mere word. Did Athos KNOW? Was this his less than subtle way of attempting to get them to…oh god no, _talk about it_ …  
  
A swift glance at the hopeful, still beamingly innocent face across the suddenly more crowded than was comfortable table from him said not, at least. Athos was capable of a lot of things, but Aramis had severe doubts that this level of matchmaking was really his style, and besides, even if he had, somehow, figured out the reason for the lingering looks Aramis threw their friend when he was strolling about half naked after a long dance practise, hadn’t he always passed it off as being an admirer of the human form in all it’s guises?!  
  
There was something useful in being known as a complete tramp. After all, everyone expected you to look, even when you weren’t serious and no one had ever even suspected that the guilty, sneaked glances Aramis allowed himself were anything less than his usual roving eye…had they? Christ, this day had been so much easier before he’d got up.  
  
“Oh because male ballet dancers have never had to deal with their sexuality being questioned by the public before, obviously.” Athos snorted, already moving to rise from his seat,  
“Really, ‘Mis, I sincerely doubt a few photo’s and a video pretending to be in love with you is going to damage his success levels with the ladies! It’s certainly never did _yours_ any harm and at least everyone in MY tape would still be clothed!”  
  
Video?! There would be VIDEO now too…this was getting distinctly out of hand at alarming rates!  
  
“ _One time_ something turns up on YouTube and you lot use it against me forever sodding more…” Aramis managed to murmur dumbly, entirely ignored by his companion.  
  
Athos was digging out his wallet and tucking a few notes under the plate as he continued on in his perky little diatribe Aramis noted distantly, completely zoning out any further words as he was reduced to merely following, lamb to the slaughter like, out of the tiny café and back into the busy Parisian streets.  
  
“Did you tell him it was me? You know…that he‘d be…posing with?” He stiltingly asked, when, at last, he’d managed to find his voice again and caught Athos by the arm to form a stationery island in the free flowing pedestrian river of the pavement.  
  
For a moment, Athos frowned at him, confused and still caught up in whatever he’d been saying as they walked, before a hand came up to clasp Aramis’ shoulder in reassuring grip and the smile returned,  
“Of course I told him it was you. Who else would I ask but my brothers?”  
  
“Low blow…” Aramis muttered darkly, finding the ghost of a smile as Athos chuckled and lazily slung an arm around his shoulders,  
  
“Trust me, a tiny, minor inconvenience for you both for a short space of time, then we have the perfect sales pitch for the future and the house can continue to keep us all in the manner to which we’d like to become accustomed! It’s the perfect plan!”  
  
Right, Aramis silently, internally screamed, the perfect plan.  
  



	2. The Mental Images

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty so, for reference, the chateau does exist, it's a half hour outside of Paris in the burbs (that were definitely NOT the burbs in the 16th/17th Century, when it was built), and I'm pleased to say is in a lot better condition than I wrote it! It really does have a swampy little scrap of land as a garden, and there is a house next door with a path into the chateau's garden. It was just too irresistable not to use it!
> 
> After this, I suspect I'll never be able to walk around Paris without thinking of these idiots again...

Two whole days passed before Aramis was once again forced to think of his own personal nightmare thanks to the handy intervention of a rush job coming in from one of his better paying magazine clients. He could have lived without having to shoot idiotic models in a barn somewhere so remote even nowhere seemed a long way off, mind you, but the view wasn‘t bad at least, and he wasn’t complaining. More money in the coffers was never bad, especially when it also meant he got to avoid the hot mess that had become his home life by conveniently crashing in the magazine funded hotel rather than going back to Chateau Mousquetaire.  
  
Apparently his free pass on avoiding the whole thing was well and truly over now, though, when he at last stumbled back in through the kitchen door (the front door was well and truly out of use since it had rusted shut last winter and promptly fallen a long way down the endless to do list of things wrong with the place) and straight into a friend based ambush.  
  
“The wanderer returns!” That would be Constance and her eternally cheery self then. There were distinct hazards to d’Artagnan’s favoured partner in crime living next door, not least of which the fact that when her husband was away, which was nearly always, she essentially moved in, making the entirely male house have to remember to do things like close bathroom doors. Not that she ever seemed to mind getting an eyeful…  
  
“Where on earth have you been this time?!” d'Artagnan himself added from his lazy sprawl over the scrubbed pine of the table, where they were both idly picking at a huge bowl of strawberries,  
“Athos was about to send out a search party in case you’d got tied to someone’s bed again…”  
  
Good grief, it was like walking into some poverty stricken version of an H&M advert, d'Artagnan's ridiculously lithe form draped in jeans so washed out, they were visibly threadbare in places, a stripe of dark skin on show where his stretched collapse to wood had dragged his t shirt up and Constance, equally ridiculously and airily pretty in this seasons must have, blousy floral number. Honestly, it made him feel old just looking at the sheer amount of youthful vigour on show.  
  
The lazy slap he applied to the back of the lads head went some way towards taking the edge off Aramis’ mood, but the strawberry he plucked from the pile really nailed it. There was always something extra delicious about the home grown stuff the odd little garden they’d lucked into produced. Probably the sheer amount of effort and sweat they’d all had to pour into the scrubby bit of swamp to get some results or something equally poetic and old world based around hard physical graft being a reward in and of itself.  
  
Personally, Aramis favoured the theory that not only did anything they’d grown NOT taste of supermarket and the plethora of strangers hands that had fingered it before hand, but was also FREE, and that was what made it taste just BETTER. He resisted mentioning any of it, however, in favour of once again defending his besmirched honour,  
“That was _years_ ago and the only reason any of you bastards even found out was because I came home with the rope still on my wrist.”  
  
Content to merely abandon his overnight bag and camera case to the floor, he settled himself onto the empty end of the long bench d'Artagnan's feet were currently occupying, lazily shoving crinkled shirt sleeves back up to his elbows to dig about in the bowl for a second helping,  
“And for your information, _pretty boy_ , I‘ve been out in the arse end of nowhere earning a crust with which to pay for more repairs to this tumbledown old shack!”  
  
“Oh my GOD, I am not PRETTY! Fucks sake, I’m a grown man!”  
  
“To be fair, you are a little bit pretty…” Constance mumbled, mid bite through her own foraged strawberry, grinning at the righteous indignation erupting from d'Artagnan in the form of a huffing groan,  
“Sorry d'Art, but you kind’ve are, there’s really no two ways about it!”  
  
There was a reason he liked Constance, Aramis decided, generously handing her the delicious looking, massive strawberry he’d just found himself with his very best smile as thanks for the helpful backup,  
“What did I miss in _gay Paris_ , anyway?”  
  
“Athos having kittens over _your_ wedding, I got a gig, and the ceiling in the blue bedroom collapsed.” d'Artagnan supplied sulkily, filching another strawberry with pink stained fingers before turning to cast his movie star perfect smile at Aramis, pips in sickeningly white teeth that matched his t-shirt and all,  
“Constance and me are in charge of outfits, by the way.”  
  
“Quite exciting, actually! We’ve been having a chat about it all!” Constance chimed in cheerily.  
  
Momentarily confused by the concept of; a. d'Artagnan managing to get a gig; and b. the fact that Athos was apparently openly concerned enough to be described as such, it took Aramis a few seconds of licking strawberry juice off his fingers to mentally catch up to the latter half of that little speech. As it was, he decided to just flat out ignore it in favour of good natured mocking, which was always a far better option than discussing THAT thing…the W word…  
“Who do I need to sleep with now to ensure you KEEP that gig, because if it’s that ridiculous idiot at _Triage_ , you can forget it! Been there, done that and it was NOT worth the effort, believe me…”  
  
It wasn’t that d'Artagnan lacked ambition or even, Aramis was grudgingly prepared to admit, some inherent vocal skill, it was really more that he seemed to have precious little luck in holding on to his singing jobs at a time when they really needed all the cash their combined, creative and less than well paid selves could manage to scrape together. Of course, the fact that he frequently ended up leaving said jobs in a haze of angry shouting about inappropriate hand placements from his bosses also wasn’t helping, but…well, the kid _was_ pretty and club owners were apparently all lecherous old bastards.  
  
“You know you don’t have to do that every time, right? And nice try…” the boy in question grinned more than a little bit smugly, clearly sensing blood like a shark in warm, tourist filled water,  
“But you forget, I’m sleeping with Athos. Deflection techniques are an average morning for me so you’re going to have to do better than that to get out of discussing the clothes for this shindig!”  
  
“Believe me…” Aramis muttered darkly, the beads around his neck a waterfall of surrender to wood as he slumped over the table to rest the shaggy mess of his head on outstretched, recently sun kissed arm,  
“I could not possibly forget you’re sleeping with Athos, you are not a quiet lad…”  
  
The smirk that the little shit exchanged with Constance was warning enough to narrow Aramis’ eyes as he looked between them, suspicion firmly setting in when no comeback was forthcoming from his victim,  
“Alright, tell me. What godawful penguin suit are you going to truss me up in for this hideous nightmare of a day then?”  
  
“What hideous nightmare of a day? Hi, by the way…are those strawberries fresh?!”  
  
Lurching upright, wide eyed and fast enough to make the bowl rattle on the table perhaps wasn’t the smoothest reaction he could have had to the unexpected sound of Porthos’ voice from behind him, but it was the one Aramis was stuck with, and he was nothing if not able to style out a situation, thank you. He was also going to flat out ignore both the poorly stifled snort from d'Artagnan and Constance’s confused glance between them all at the unexpected and out of character event.  
  
“You alright, ‘Mis? Look like you‘ve seen a ghost!” Porthos’ concerned shoulder pat as he passed made Aramis flinch visibly before he had a handle on himself again, forcing a few calming breaths in and out of seized lungs.  
  
This was ridiculous, it was just PORTHOS, the same man he’d been a week ago, the same friendly great lump he’d always been, the same…ridiculously attractive, sculpted by the gods, completely out of bounds man he’d always been…  
  
Sense prevailing once again, Aramis guiltily cleared his throat and attempted his usual levels of nonchalance, refusing to dignify the amused expressions watching him from d'Artagnan and Constance’s end of the table,  
“Fine, I’m fine…just…um…tired?”  
  
He managed an apparently reasonably convincing smile when Porthos dropped his not inconsiderable weight of muscle onto the bench opposite, nodding a greeting at Constance before casting his friend a furrowed browed look of concern that melted into sympathetic understanding and rueful smile,  
“Busy couple of days work?”  
  
Bless him. Dear, sweet Porthos, never the first to assume Aramis had been up all night creating mischief even on the many…many occasions it would have been a good assumption, simply asking if he’d worked too hard. Good grief, he was just an unbelievably lovely human being and Aramis was just so unbelievably weak for it.  
  
“Something like that…” he muttered, dropping his head again to thump painfully on his own folded arms.  
  
“Aramis is having a huff over clothing choices for your wedding…” d'Artagnan could not have sounded more smug if he’d tried. Aramis was internally rather proud he resisted the almost overwhelming urge to flip the little bastard off the table.  
  
“The photo thing Athos wants us to do? We have to dress up?”  
  
Poor, sweet, inno…well, no, that one was pushing it, not filled in on the full situation, Porthos. You could practically feel the confusion radiating off the great lump of a man currently delving into the strawberry bowl with a vengeance. Someone should really tell him everything now, let him run for the hills while he still could and Aramis wouldn’t have to spend any more time feeling like the rug had been whipped out from under him and everything could return to normal again.  
  
“Don’t think I’ve ever worn a suit…” Porthos announced to the world at large, gruff voice a rumbling purr as he absently licked a strawberry smeared thumb.  
  
Evidently the hopeless whimper Aramis released into his own skin adequately covered just how little he believed he could cope with seeing that ridiculously well worked body in tailoring because d'Artagnan was suddenly very quiet indeed. So quiet, in fact, that Aramis was forced to risk a glance out of the pleasantly dark cage of his arms in time to see the lad’s annoyingly perceptive gaze firmly fixed on him, assessment within his eyes slowly switching to widening realisation.  
  
Great. Well, the situation had just taken a noticeable nosedive. Mental images aside.  
  
“You can’t pretend to get married in jeans, Porthos…” d'Artagnan said, and without even bothering to check, Aramis could bloody well TELL the boys eyes were firmly still on his own, slumped form.  
  
“We’ll have to find something suitably smart in your wardrobe later…” Constance added, clearly mentally plotting away already,  
“Athos says we can’t afford to rent anything, so we already went through Aramis‘ clothes…”  
  
Poor girl, she was always called in for fashion advice. Curse of a tailors wife, Aramis decided before he registered what had been said and his head snapped up once again, frown firmly on,  
“You went through my clothes?!”  
  
“You dress like a 70’s pimp, we had to check you had something that wouldn‘t clash ridiculously with whatever we find for Porthos!” d'Artagnan snorted, propping himself up on his elbow by the now half empty bowl of fruit.  
  
“It’s just that you two have very different styles…” Constance added quickly at Aramis‘ sharp intake of breath and applying a swift hand over d'Artagnan's mouth to silence any further moments of goading,  
“Aramis is…”  
  
“A sex pest?” d'Artagnan deadpanned after a brief struggle with his impromptu gag.  
  
The hand clamped harder,  
“More FLAMBOYANT…”  
  
“I am not FLAMBOYANT! I have style!” Aramis muttered indignantly, dragging the strawberry bowl out of d'Artagnan's reach with a dark look as punishment before grumpily stuffing one in his mouth. It was one thing to be found out by the younger end of their little group, who would now, no doubt, MERCILESSLY mock him forever more, and more worryingly, had a high likelihood of TELLING ATHOS, but it was quite another to be accused of lacking sartorial elegance!  
  
Constance’s hand forcibly removed from his mouth and pinned to the table by both of his own, d'Artagnan raised a dark brow and fixed him with an altogether knowing look,  
“You have ONE SUIT, ‘Mis, and it’s BURGANDY VELVET.”  
  
“It’s TOM FORD!”  
  
“And it cost you four pay packets to buy it, so you’re disqualified from choosing any clothing for the wedding on the basis that you’re incapable of working to our budget. Which is NIL, by the way, so now we have to find something for Porthos that doesn’t look ridiculous next to your hideous suit.”  
  
“I always thought that suit looked good on him, actually.” came the quiet and frankly mind boggling admittance from an utterly unconcerned Porthos as he ponderously chose another strawberry from the bowl.  
  
The stunned silence that little revelation was met with would have made Aramis cringe were it not for his own ability to do more than gape like a fish being missing presumed lost. Had he ever even worn the damn thing at a time when Porthos would have seen it? Certainly it had done duty at many a party, but they were usually the variety of schmooze and mingle rubbish he was forced into for work purposes, rather than any events his friends would have been at too…  
  
“LITTLE HELP? The bloody bathroom tap just exploded…again!”  
  
Athos, Aramis decided as the entire room sprang into well practised, leak busting action, had stellar timing. One day, he might even tell the puppy eyed bastard that too.  



	3. The Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because for all he teases d'Artagnan, he's still got the idiot childs back...

As a rule, Aramis was not a fan of phone calls that came at 11pm on the rare nights he just wanted to faceplant into his own bed and sleep. He was especially less than thrilled with the kind that immediately deafened you with the noise of what could only be a nightclub and a slightly panicky sounding d'Artagnan swearing in four languages and begging for a lift home. Sadly for him, however, with Porthos out for the evening at work, throwing some girl in a tutu about on stage and Athos last seen several hours before, heading out across the city in search of some evidently hens teeth rare bit of antique plumbing to ensure the exploding taps didn’t recur, he wasn’t left with any choice in being the one to deal with the matter.  
  
Depressingly, it was a situation he found himself in more often than he really wanted to consider whilst dragging his sorry self across town in the clapped out old Citroen they all shared. At least he had the pleasing thought that after this, Athos owed him TWO favours and d'Artagnan might be rather more convinced to keep his Disney princess mouth shut on the Thing That Was Not To Be Mentioned.  
  
Also, it was ego soothingly flattering that despite his not finding the energy to bother changing out of the same pair of travel worn jeans and wrinkled shirt he’d had on for three days, he still managed to waltz straight past the overdressed queue with merely a winning smile and nod at the doorman. Sometimes, infamy on the streets came in handy!  
  
Any momentary revelling in his own awesomeness was robbed of him almost immediately however, when, once his eyes and ears had grown accustomed to the sensory overload of a crowded club, he spotted the reason for the phone call that had heralded his little jaunt. Poor d'Artagnan, once again hemmed into a corner whilst some sleazy old club manager attempted to remember how one put the moves on someone comfortably half their age. Right then, business as usual.  
  
“Excuse me…” he shouted over the din, tapping the lecherous old git on the shoulder as d'Artagnan threw him a thoroughly relieved ‘save me!’ look from harried eyes,  
“Come to collect the lad there, if you don’t mind.”  
  
“Think I do mind, actually!” The sweaty idiot replied, turning back to d'Artagnan with a dismissive snort and a hand that wandered enough for the lad in question to recoil, face a familiar picture of indignant outrage that had Aramis huffing out a long suffering sigh and acting on well formed habit.  
  
God, Athos owed him so fucking much.  
  
Hand closing around the boy’s more solid than it seemed bicep, Aramis didn’t bother to wait for the inevitable explosion of temper that d'Artagnan was infamous for allowing to escape at the least appropriate moment, dragging him out of the booze and cheap aftershave scented cage of leering admirer quickly to head for the door.  
  
It was imperative, they’d all discovered, a long time ago when they’d first got to know their youngest member, to immediately remove d'Artagnan from any situation where his latent cockiness was likely to start a bar brawl unless they were all present to even up the numbers. Since there were merely the two of them, and the only one without a glass jaw was currently running on about twelve hours sleep in three days, discretion was very definitely the better part of valour this evening.  
  
“I wouldn’t sing in this _shithole_ if it was the last stage on earth, you disgusting PIG!”  
  
Apparently d'Artagnan was not on board with that very sensible concept then. Excellent.  
  
It was pitifully easy to dodge the weak punch that was failingly aimed in their general direction by the predictably irate little club manager, more so to flip the obnoxious little shit around and shove his miserable face into the wall he’d had the lad cornered against. The slightly lower, threatening timbre in Aramis’ voice and twist of a thick arm up sweaty back though, that was just for fun,  
“I don’t think you want to try that again now, do you. Because if you do, I’m going to have to break your arm, and frankly, I am too fucking tired to bother with you. So how about we make a deal, hmm?”  
There was a moment’s pause in which the surrounding crowd grew bored of what was clearly not going to be the flat out chaos they’d expected and went back to their drinks and dancing, before the odious fool beneath Aramis’ grip nodded shortly and allowed his captor to continue,  
“Here’s what we’re going to do. I‘m going to take the boy out of here, and you’re not going to so much as look at him funny again. How does that sound?”  
  
Aramis took the grunt issued from smooshed face as affirmation, and he relaxed once again, releasing the idiot to pat at the remains of a once clean silk shirt,  
“Good choice, well done.”  
  
They were barely ten paces away from the ridiculous little twat by the time he’d managed to gather some wits about himself and call after them,  
“That’s it you little prick tease, run home to your _boyfriend_ and don’t come back!”  
  
“Not his boyfriend…” Aramis airily replied, lifting the hand not in an iron grip on furiously resisting, obscene gesture throwing Gascon arm to throw a little wave back over his shoulder.  
  
“FUCKING SLUT!”  
  
In retrospect, given the predictable slur that preceded it in the sweat and booze tinged air, he probably COULD have sidestepped the pathetic attempt at a physical attack. As it was, his patience was at a distinctly stretched edge and his sleep deprived brain was rather operating on muscle memory levels of autopilot when he broke the fools ugly nose with a square fist to the face.  
  
That was his story, and he was sticking to it.  
  
“Be _grateful_ it was me you hideous little toad…” he spat, shaking out his now aching hand and shoving d'Artagnan's spluttering, stunned and giggling form in the general direction of the door,  
“His boyfriend is far less understanding and has a much better right hook.”  
  
Yet another bloody club to add to the banned list stuck to the fridge door then. Lovely.  



	4. The Discovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You get two chapters today, because I'm feeling generous and this one is short! :-) Comments are love, btw, people...just saying...

Even the muggy evening air of Paris in summer was a pleasant change after the toxic atmosphere in the club and Aramis took a grateful, deep breath or two, d'Artagnan bouncing along gleefully beside him,  
“Did you see his FACE?! I think you broke his nose!”  
  
He wasn’t about to dignify that with anything more than an eyeroll and the absent flexing of bruised knuckles, not that the lad needed any encouraging,  
“Jesus what a DICK, I can’t believe the amount of clubs in this town owned by UTTER bell ends…”  
  
Settling for uttering his very finest, patented, non-encouraging noises, Aramis blithely continued his near sleep walking attempts to reach the car and hopefully soon also his BED, until he felt a hand on his arm pull him up short and turned to find d'Artagnan's concerned frown firmly in place.  
  
“Thank you…” he said, suddenly a great deal less cocky little bastard who got into bar fights and a great deal more the sweet kid Athos had come home with one day, and promptly fallen in love with,  
“I know you’ve barely slept and you could have lived without coming out here to fetch me, but you did it anyway because you’re amazing, and I owe you. So…thank you.”  
  
Aramis could feel his resolve melting under the most pathetic puppy eyes known to mankind, it was like looking straight into the molten heart of cuteness, you’d have to be dead to be immune for christ’s sake!  
  
“Oh god not The Face, please…” he muttered, giving in and slinging an arm around slumped shoulders to drag the lad into a lazy, half there cuddle as they continued their slow route to the car,  
 “Just try not to get into bar brawls would you? If not for me, for Athos and his poor nerves.”  
  
“Oh alright, since you asked _nicely_ and all…”  
  
At least the usual levels of snark were returning to d'Artagnan's voice again, normality slowly inching back into the post adrenaline rush gap and leaving them both silently grateful for the contact, even if neither of them was prepared to admit it,  
“Good lad. It’s all your older, slightly dysfunctional, unofficially adopted brother wants to hear.”  
  
“You‘re an idiot, you know.” The blindingly white smile was back again and Aramis allowed himself a quick squeeze of bony shoulder before giving the lad a nudge to get into the rust bucket of a car they’d finally reached, his own grin tilting his lips up,  
“Oh…oh please, continue with the base flattery, I think you missed a spot on my ego there!”  
  
“No, really…” d'Artagnan continued, pausing as they both slid into their seats, buckling seatbelts whilst Aramis began the delicate process of getting the poor, knackered old car to start,  
“You should just talk to Porthos and be done with it.”  
  
The momentary freeze in the casual flicking of his wrist on ignition key made Aramis stutter the ridiculously awkward jiggle/twist combo required to get the damn thing to turn over, making the engine sputter for a moment before cutting out again and leaving them sat in painful silence.  
  
“I talk to him all the time…” he managed, desperately fumbling the fucking key again whilst avoiding the suddenly very solid gaze he could feel boring holes into him.  
  
“You’re in love with him, aren’t you.”  
  
Not even a question. Perfect. There were times and places for conversations like this, Aramis decided, listening to the car wheeze it’s way through another few attempts at getting the engine to kick in. In this particular conversations case, the time was never and the place was his hideous, worst nightmares.  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous…” he muttered, silently offering up prayers to anyone willing to get this godforsaken fucking car going and end this misery…  
  
“’Mis…I see the way you look at him since this whole wedding thing started…” d'Artagnan's slim hand closed over his arm and Aramis flinched, dropping the car keys into the dark depths of the footwell with a fumbling oath as he ducked, frantically trying to reach the bastard things.  
  
“How long have you been hiding it?”  
  
Breath leaving him in a long rush of defeat, Aramis dropped his head to the steering wheel, narrowly avoiding honking the horn in mournful despair with his own forehead,  
“If you tell him, I swear to god d'Art, I will SHRED those skinny jeans you only wear when you want Athos to jump you.”  
  
“It‘s cute that you think it‘s just the jeans that do that…” d'Artagnan smirked, the hand on Aramis’ arm patting condescendingly before he went back in for the kill, like some half grown lion cub scenting dinner in the form of a limping gazelle,  
“But once _again_ , deflection techniques are breakfast to me, so let’s try this again, shall we. How long?”  
  
Reduced to a mere whimper into the chipped plastic of the steering wheel, Aramis gave in even attempting to get out of the situation. Clearly his luck for the night had simply run out.  
“Does it matter? It’s not an issue and he doesn‘t EVER need to know.”  
  
The hand on his arm moved up to ruffle his hair,  
“Oh ‘Mis, you really are a tool sometimes…does Athos even know?!”  
  
“GOD no and he won’t, either! Apparently you’re the only one who’s noticed in twenty years and I’d really rather like it if we kept it that way, thanks!” Aramis muttered, dragging himself up from the wheel only to slump back in his seat, head lolling against the torn upholstery to cast a weary look at his nemesis.  
  
“Twenty YEARS?! Oh… _’Mis_ …”  
  
“Stop saying that like you think I‘ve just lost a LIMB or something!”  
  
“It’s just…HOW have you never told…”  
  
And really, that was the final straw, the pity filled, big brown eyes complete with little frown of worry on a face comfortably ten years his junior,  
“I’m going to stop you there…” he said sternly, holding up a finger in front of d'Artagnan's still open mouth to emphasise the point before taking a calming breath,  
“There is never going to be a point where ANYONE needs to know about this. This is not a problem, it’s been fine for basically our entire lives and I’m not about to fuck that up now just because your idiot boyfriend‘s latest money making scheme requires me to get pretend hitched.”  
  
Raised hand dropping wearily in a soft slap to grubby, denim clad thigh, Aramis suddenly felt his tiredness in every bone of his body,  
“Help me out here, d'Art, I need this to remain not A Thing. Please?”  
  
Evidently his level of exhaustion showed too. The frowning, worry filled pause from the usually constantly chatty lad probably shouldn’t have caused quite such a burning behind his eyes, but Aramis put that firmly down to his utterly knackered state and waited, the silence a heavy presence in the confines of the car for a moment before d'Artagnan nodded,  
“Alright, ‘Mis. But you have to promise to talk to me if you need to, because…just _because_ …don't make me say it, neither of us wants _caring_ hanging in the air here...”  
  
Determined not to let the slightly damp edges of his lashes show, Aramis dove back into the footwell to drag out the errant keys with merely a gruff noise of assent as answer.  
“You just concentrate on coming up with a believable story for tonight so Athos doesn’t want to go and lynch another idiot.”  
  
The blinding, perfect smile glinted in the hint of streetlight working it’s way into the car and Aramis felt himself relax a touch.  
  
“WELL…it’s between a freak meeting with pirates, or getting lost on the metro…”


	5. The Favour Gets Worse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concept that for the last twenty years, not a one of them has ever progressed past the names they knew eachother by at school was just irresistable...naturally this is just open season for d'Artagnan.

“Why do we need a rehearsal?”   
  
Inwardly, Aramis was cheering, because for once it wasn’t him having to ask the question that seemed obvious to him and no one else present. This time, the dubious honour had fallen to Porthos, resting his bulk up against one of the plethora of tables scattered around the chateau’s ballroom. He looked like some glorious, vest and low riding sweats wearing mountain in repose, Aramis poetically decided, even with a cereal bowl in hand and dripping spoon halfway raised to mouth as he blinked at Athos in barely awake confusion.  
  
Outwardly, of course, Aramis was focussing on attempting to neck as much coffee and toast as was available to him. If he was doing so whilst very much NOT focussing on the bare patch of Porthos’ belly that was right in his eyeline, sat as he was, at the very table providing a leaning post for his friend, so be it. Bad enough that d'Artagnan had greeted him that morning with a pity filled smile and the handing over of a cup of something that both looked and tasted like tar. Aramis was not about to get caught out staring and drooling into his breakfast.  
  
Even if he had woken up awkwardly sprawled over his bed, fully dressed and still where he’d fallen the night before, several days of grime on his skin and a familiar, distinct ache between his thighs. It was just an unhealthy reminder of the sort of dreams he usually rather enjoyed making it’s presence known, that was all.  
  
He was also definitely not thinking about the latter end of that and the fact that the subject matter of said dreams was within touching distance, visible, dark hipbone moving with sinuous grace as Porthos shifted his weight and resettled. Wasn’t thinking about the ridiculously long shower he’d had before strolling downstairs either, in which he’d eased that nagging ache. Twice.  
  
“Ahh. Well…” Athos murmured guiltily, pointedly not making eye contact with anything but his own cup, clasped firmly in both hands beside d'Artagnan’s cross legged perch,   
“I might have invited a few wedding journalists along to the day so I could show them how everything works…”  
  
“ _Oli_ …” d'Artagnan’s voice held a distinct note of warning that made even Aramis raise a brow, gaze flicking between them to watch the silent conversation that played out before him. It was rare enough for the real name to come out, but when it was used with that tone, you had to worry…  
  
“Oh god alright, I might have also told them it was all real…” Athos at last admitted with an apologetic pat to d'Artagnan’s thigh and a wince that told Aramis he knew precisely how that bit of news was going to go down with everyone else in the room.  
  
“Sorry, _WHAT?!_ ” Even d'Artagnan’s vicious morning brew couldn’t have got Aramis out of his sleepy haze quite as fast as the concept of spending an entire day pretending to be in love with Porthos apparently did, because he was wide awake now, that was for damn sure,  
“A few photo‘s, you said. A VIDEO, you said, nowhere whatsoever did you mention anything about an entire DAY going for an oscar worthy performance!”  
  
“I _know_ , I’m sorry, it was just the only way I could convince them to cover us as a venue!” Athos was employing the puppy eye/uncomfortably asking for help combo he only ever used when utterly desperate, leaning over the table with earnest expression writ large over his face,  
“We just have to make the day believable and then they never need know any different…please, guys, we really need this…”  
  
Sighing, Aramis let his eyes slide shut for a moment, attempting to gather a working brain. Right, well, that was entirely worth getting up for, wasn’t it. Propping his face in his hand, he settled for  fixing Athos with a stern(ish), raised browed glare. There was no way they were going to let him down, they all knew it, but still, sometimes it paid to make him realise he was pushing his luck on the batshit crazy things he talked them into. This was firmly one of those times.  
  
Porthos apparently had no such qualms.  
“I did wonder why Constance measured me up for a suit…”  
  
Aramis flicked his gaze up at that revelation to find Porthos staring at him with an unreadable expression in his eyes that cleared almost immediately into a lazy, ripple of shoulder muscle based shrug and wry tilt of the lips,  
“It’s only a day.”  
  
The world, Aramis decided, owed him so very much for this.  
“Oh god alright, what do we need to do?”  
  



	6. The Temporary Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh what's this...a hint of romance? I believe it might beeeee...

Several hours and a vat of coffee later and Aramis was mentally making a list of ways in which Athos was going to repay him. It was thus far comfortably over a hundred items long, and the first fifty were variations on the theme of never asking for another favour again for the rest of their combined lives, whilst simultaneously owing Aramis unlimited ones. It was a good list.  
  
“So we’ll have the ceremony itself on the dais at the front…” Athos was apparently well into his stride now, gesturing about the ballroom. Mercifully, he’d been joined by Constance who had appeared somewhere after breakfast armed with a suspicious suit carrier bearing her husband‘s tailoring name, and ever since the pair had been lost in endless conversations about seating…decorations…frankly Aramis had ceased to listen in as fully as he probably should have some time ago.  
  
“Reckon they’d notice if we slunk off?” Porthos’ low murmur close to his ear made Aramis yelp, sloshing his n’th cup of coffee over his hand in a stinging line of heat he wiped off on his once clean jeans.  
  
“If you’re planning an escape…” he managed, throwing a slightly strained, nervous smile at his friend,  
“I’m game if you are!”  
  
Evidently it wasn’t cutting it for Porthos, the concerned frown was back and Aramis felt himself tense as his friend drew a breath, clearly about to question quite why it was he’d turned into a gibbering wreck of late.  
  
“What flowers do you think, Porthos?”  
  
Thank god for Constance!  
  
“What? Um…pretty ones?”  
  
Alright, that was enough to turn the falsified version of a smile into a real one and Aramis was forced to duck his head to prevent Constance catching sight of it and giving him a slap. He’d been on the receiving end of that fist before and it wasn’t an experience he was eager to repeat!  
  
“Oh good grief, well you’re both going to be about as much use as a chocolate teapot then aren’t you…” Constance muttered, heading back to Athos with a called,  
“These two are hopeless, we‘ll find whatever looks not dead from the garden…”  
  
Watching her go, Aramis felt a hand on his arm and looked up to see Porthos’ wide grin, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he lifted a finger to his lips in a hushing motion and tugged at Aramis’s sleeve,  
“C’mon, let’s get the hell out of here for a bit!”  
  
Since his agreement to the plan was apparently entirely unnecessary, Aramis allowed himself to be towed along in Porthos’ wake, the warm hand around his arm holding on in a pleasantly solid grip. It wasn’t exactly the day he’d envisioned, but he wasn’t about to knock escaping the tedium of that bloody ballroom, especially when Porthos was grinning at him and ushering him out the door before they could be spotted making their break for it.  
  
Breaking into a run as soon as the door clicked shut behind them, they headed for the back door, stumbling through it and out into the leafy greenery of the garden to collapse against the wall of the house with breathless, giddy laughter. Aramis was ashamed to admit he’d forgotten just how much giggling at stupidity with Porthos could lift his mood and for a moment or two, they remained there, backs pressed to the sun warmed bricks, shoulders touching, sucking air back into their lungs around irrepressible grins.  
  
“It’s good, seeing you happy again…” Porthos chuckled from beside him, ducking his head to look Aramis in the eye as the hand wrapped around his wrist gentled into really more of a…stroke.  
“It’s bloody worrying when you’re so quiet and not…you.”  
  
Snorting at the sheer idiocy of their current predicament and still giddy on the remains of the laughter, Aramis let his head roll on the wall, pressing their foreheads together to grin at the ridiculously handsome face he knew almost as well as his own,  
“So…noise and chaos is me, is what you‘re saying?”  
  
The smile he was met with was even more breathtaking when so close, mirth bright in Porthos’ eyes even as he ducked closer to bump their noses together in lazy affection, voice a rumbling purr into the warm slither of air they shared,  
“S‘a good look on you…miss it when it‘s not there.”  
  
“’MIIIIIIIIIISSS…OH…there you are, what on earth are…you…” d’Artagnan trailed off, one hand still on the door he’d flung wide in his hurry to track them down and a dark brow slithering up at the startled jump apart he’d just witnessed. The fact that it was followed by possibly the most devious smile that face had ever worn was not a comforting thought for Aramis.  
  
“Athos is pitching a fit over a lack of suitable table cloth choices…” the smug little brat continued, eyes flicking between his quarry with the sort of expression that left Aramis in no doubt that this was about to become a very expensive day for him. He had a feeling there was a large quantity of bribery in his immediate future and d’Artagnan was nothing if not easy to read.  
  
“I can borrow the ones from the theatre, probably…” Porthos broke the silence with a casual shrug, already heading back indoors and leaving Aramis drawing in a steadying breath behind him.  
  
Predictably, the daggered look and swift hand across throat motion he made in silent warning at d’Artagnan’s unholy, glee filled grin did nothing to prevent the boy bouncing down the hall after him and flinging himself at Aramis’ back until he was forced to catch and carry the wriggling dead weight, piggy back style.  
  
“Ohhh you are _so screwwwwwedddd_!“ d’Artagnan singsonged quietly against his ear, arms draped around his packhorses neck, utterly content to be carried whilst doing his mocking,  
“Were there tongues?!”  
  
Aramis had absolutely zero scruples about dropping the little shit the second they hit the ballroom. The floor was sprung, he’d bounce. Probably.  
  



	7. The Free Meal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I should probably admit the professions I gave the boys in this are heavily influenced by both the BBC version of their characters and also the actors that play them. In this case, I read a thing a while back where Howard Charles listed ballet as a hobby...it stuck :-)
> 
> Athos is the caretaker of his family name for obvious reasons, and Aramis is a photographer because...well, it's still shooting, isn't it!

“Boys…God, I cannot take you anywhere, can I!” Constance sighed with a huff of laughter as she watched Athos and Aramis hastily filling Tupperware tubs with anything they could lay their hands on at the buffet table.  
  
“Now now…” Aramis grinned, shoving a cocktail sausage into his mouth as the remainder of the bowl went into one of the tubs with a swift flick of practised wrist,  
“These nice people laid on all this lovely food and it’d just be _rude_ to leave it all to go to waste!”  
  
“Besides which…” Athos added, emptying an entire plate of chicken tikka sticks into a ziplock before hastily tucking it into the massive messenger bag at his hip,  
“We’re merely supporting Porthos. If we happen to get a weeks worth of free food out of it, well that’s just…” He paused, grappling with one of the bowls of carrot sticks for a moment before it’s contents gave in to gravity and he could snap the lid shut on the tub they’d landed in, lifting his head to throw her a grin,  
“A happy side effect of having a friend who works in a _very_ generous ballet theatre!”  
  
Eyes rolling, Constance was clearly debating the sense in reprimanding them for the low grade levels of theft they all engaged in during the many and varied parties Porthos used his performers tickets to get them in to. Her eyes narrowed on the sight of Aramis skewering an entire tray of cold cuts with a fork and scooping them into one of the larger boxes they’d smuggled in. He threw her a winning smile.  
  
“Oh for heaven’s sake…” she finally muttered, elbowing her way in between the two of them and whipping the fork from Aramis’ hand to attack a platter of roast vegetables,  
“If you’re going to do it at least take the nutritionally valid things and pack it well! Have a little class!”  
  
“Porthos says to make sure you get him some of the roast beef vol-au-vents…” d’Artagnan grinned, appearing at Athos’ side and straightening his borrowed waistcoat to hide the strawberry stain on his shirt. There had been little point in any one of them bothering to do any washing with the chateau in it’s current state of cleaning and patching upheaval, which had meant that they’d been forced to raid each others wardrobes for anything smart and clean enough to function as dinner wear for the night. It was the latest in a long and increasingly frequent set of evenings of them all wondering quite who’s clothes they were currently sporting.  
  
Commonplace though it was, there was no way on God’s green earth Aramis was ever going to admit that his waistcoat looked better on d’Artagnan than it did on him, but he was more than willing to own the delicious, pale green shirt he’d dug out of the back of Athos’ wardrobe for himself. It had gone some way towards taking the edge off the fact that he’d been summarily banned from wearing The Suit on the basis that he was bound to spill something grim down it and no one wanted to chance getting it dry cleaned before the wedding day.  
  
The free food was taking the edge off it too. As would the four bottles of really rather good red wine they’d already snuck out to the waiting Citroen.  
  
“I already got him the entire side of ham and I‘m running out of Tupperware…” Athos was muttering to d’Artagnan as the bell for the audience to take their seats dinged above them and Aramis took it upon himself to rescue the situation, throwing a bald faced grin at the stunned waiter and hastily shoving the whole tray of vol-au-vents into the last of his free tubs.  
  
It would have been worth it just for the spluttering horror of the wait staff alone, the knowledge that later, a simple tub of stolen food would bring Aramis the unadulterated pleasure of seeing Porthos’ wide, pirates’ smile just made the act essential to his day.   
  
He wasn’t going to think about why.  
    
Mercifully for his wayward thoughts, by the time all the illicit food was tucked away in various, Constance packed bags and coat pockets, all of which they abandoned at the coat check, the second bell was long run and they settled into their seats just in time for the opening notes. It wasn’t until he actually laid eyes on Porthos under limelight that Aramis realised he’d been absently searching the stage for him, eyes automatically seeking out the familiar form and unwilling to pay even the slightest bit of attention to any of the other, undoubtedly fantastic dancers.   
  
It would probably be considered heresy if anyone else in the room had known that not a single one of his friends had the first clue what they were watching, but the thought made Aramis oddly proud as he glanced down the line of faces in profile beside him. Porthos could have been playing the second tree on the left for all they cared, they still all would have turned up, dressed in their scruffy finest, just to cheer him on. The fact that none of them knew the first thing about ballet was neither here nor there.  
  
Actually in retrospect, their lack of knowledge about something that was such a vast part of one of their numbers life was a minor miracle! How many years had they all been together now? Rather more than Aramis was willing to think about when sat next to d’Artagnan and Constance, in all their painfully youthful glory, certainly. It was probably testament to Porthos’ taciturn nature that he’d been happy for all those years, surrounded by Aramis’ less than retiring personality, Athos’ initial angst-fest early adult life melting into the settled contentment he now had with d’Artagnan…and the brat himself, in all his cocky, mouthy glory.  
  
Aramis would admit he’d been rather busy up a ladder attempting to shore up the ceiling in the blue bedroom for most of the week and had sadly neglected to read any of the programs or even the name of the thing on the ticket he’d accepted. Now though, watching Porthos effortlessly perform a level of gymnastics that would have killed Aramis himself, he was becoming increasingly determined to make that neglect up to his friend. Maybe he could get the gruff great giant to give him a rundown on the plot, later, over a bottle of that nicked wine and whatever food Porthos felt like inhaling after major exertion on stage.  
  
Might be best to wait for him to no longer be in a costume that clung to him like a second skin and outlined every muscle on that solid, delicious body, though. That was more distracting than Aramis was entirely prepared to admit to. Particularly when Porthos was throwing about a girl in a tutu, the ripple of his dark skin under the stage lights making Aramis draw in a deep, unsteady breath.  
  
From the corner of his eye, he caught distracting movement and glanced down from his rapt concentration in time to see d’Artagnan elbowing Constance, nodding in his direction. Perfect, caught staring like a fan girl again then. d’Artagnan’s smirk did not bode well…neither did Constance’s considering look.  
  
On the stage, Porthos was performing unfeasibly elegant moves for a man his size, dragging Aramis’ attention back where it belonged and making his fingers itch for his camera to capture the sinuous curve of a back he’d strapped the aching muscles on more times than he could count. Thinking about it, he couldn’t really name a time when he hadn’t wanted to record every second he’d witnessed of Porthos dancing in some way or another and if his friends wanted to tease him for it later, he suddenly found himself willing to accept it just for the chance to keep watching.  
  
He had absolutely no doubt he’d regret that later, of course, but for now, it was more than enough.  
  



	8. The Quiet Peace of Evening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A touch of calm in the midst of chaos for two people who are defying the laws of intelligence a great deal, it would seem...

Nicking those vol-au-vents had been entirely worth it, Aramis decided, watching Porthos demolish the entire box with the variety of relish only those used to manual labour could ever find in their food. Nicking the wine that Aramis himself was currently sipping, that had just been a masterstroke, however. Not least of which because d’Artagnan was a lightweight of epic proportions and having polished off a half bottle, had promptly fallen asleep, leaving Athos to carry the deadweight up to bed and Aramis with the quiet peace of the evening broken only by Porthos’ happy eating.  
  
The last of the vol-au-vents vanished on a rumbling purr and Porthos lazily reached for the cold cuts, pulling up short half way with a wince and much gentler continuation of movement. It was a move sadly more familiar than Aramis would have liked it to have been.  
  
“Back or shoulder?” He asked, voice quiet in the dim light of the one working bulb the kitchen sported.  
  
“I think…“ Porthos chewed a chunk of chicken thoughtfully for a moment, carefully rotating his arm to test it, his eyes tired,  
“Both.”  
  
Silently, Aramis rolled to his feet, heading for the cupboard under the sink where he kept the first aid box he was forced to crack out a great deal on nights like this. More, actually, in recent months than ever before, which was a thought that made him pause, frowning down at the supplies in his hand. Christ, they were all definitely getting past the point where they could continue to abuse their bodies with quite this level of verve, weren’t they. Poor Porthos surely had it the worst too, his entire career based on his ridiculous strength and grace on a stage.  
  
“C’mon…” Aramis murmured, patting the broad back encouragingly,  
“Up on the table, let me do something with it before you sleep on it funny.”  
  
Porthos groaningly rising and wrestling with his t shirt, Aramis settled for clearing a space amidst the dishes, laying out his rolls of tape and copious tubes of Deep Heat before shoving the remaining Tupperware into the fridge to serve as free meals again tomorrow. It felt curiously settling and routine an activity to be performing after the week of strange confusion and Athos’ panic.  
  
Aramis wasn’t sure if the well formed skill of patching up your injured friends was really a thing he should take quite so much solace in, if he were honest. Nonetheless, watching Porthos pull his bulk up to sit on the table top with many a wince, Aramis found himself suddenly a great deal calmer than he had in days.  
  
Quickly drenching his hands in ointment and rubbing them together to warm it up, he reached up to carefully press at the twitching, dark muscles before him, seeking out the knots and pulls as Porthos relaxed into the contact. He felt his smile tilt up when those shoulders slumped on a long sigh of relief.  
  
“Handed in my notice at the theatre last week…”  
  
The words, a mere purr of gruff, low voice, took a second or two to sink into Aramis’ brain, so focussed was he on the distinctly tight patch of shoulder beneath his fingers. When at last their true meaning hit grey matter, he paused his ministrations to pull back, meeting heavy lidded eyes and a rueful smile with silent, questioning expression.  
  
Words, he had learnt, very early on in this friendship, were not always strictly necessary between them at times like this, and it was often just better to let Porthos get to the point in his own time.  
  
“I’m too old.” Porthos finally continued, the shoulder not under Aramis’ hand rising and falling in barely awake shrug.  
  
“You are not _old_ …don’t be ridiculous…” he replied softly, digging his thumb into a particularly knotted section of muscle, pleased at the huff of relief it produced.  
   
“In ballet terms I’m a hundred and four…and I _feel_ it…”  
  
Aramis frowned at that, his fingers skating the long, striped marks on familiar skin, the evidence that Porthos had spent the entire performance strapped up and in pain. Again. Thinking about it, that had been the story for nearly all of the last few performance nights Aramis had been at home to witness the fall out of. It showed in the exhaustion laced eyes he found himself staring into as well, the resignation and pain hovering in the back of Porthos’ achingly familiar face.  
  
“What will you do?” Aramis asked, hands stilling to merely hold. He really didn’t give a shit about  what would be considered appropriate contact anymore, not when his friend was in pain and needed him enough to allow him to smooth his fingers around the curve of broad shoulder, the other hand coming to rest at Porthos’ throat, a thumb unconsciously smoothing over the ridge of collarbone in silent comfort.  
  
Beneath his touch, Porthos shrugged again and Aramis was distantly pleased to note the movement seemed easier, less aware of the aching muscle involved,  
“Thought I might teach. Get Athos to let me use the ballroom, sprung floor’s already there.”  
  
It was a good idea and he said so, his smile genuine for the first time since he’d seen that initial wince,  
“He’ll doubtless be overjoyed any of us have found a use for the bloody thing!” He added, hands automatically going back to their kneading of solid flesh, albeit with a gentler, less conscious movement now,  
“You should have told us. We could have talked about it and helped.”  
  
Porthos heaved a great sigh, vast ribcage moving like bellows for a breath before he slumped forwards in relaxation under the touch, dropping his head to Aramis’ shoulder as a hand came up to lazily rest at his hip,  
“Everyone had enough to worry about, didn’t seem the time.” the soft mumble was a breeze on warm skin.  
  
Smiling at the suddenly molten great lump draping himself over Aramis’ own, distinctly less worn out body, he gave up any pretence of the massage and sank his hand into the tight curls of Porthos’ hair.

Inwardly debating anything when his friend was this knackered was clearly a fools errand, so he simply let his cheek rest against the head on his shoulder, both of them taking the  contact for the simple comfort it was for a few moments in companionable silence.  
  
“Idiot.” He murmured eventually with affection rich in his tone.  
  
The soft smile he’d been sporting up until then curled into something closer to a grin at the amused huff of warm air Porthos released against his throat in response,  
“You smell of cheap paint and ceiling…”  
  
“Yeah? Well you reek of Deep Heat, think that makes us even.”  
  
The snorting chuckle the exchange drew from them both was enough to lift Porthos’ head, free hand curving around Aramis’ jaw as he pressed their foreheads together, his tired smile so beautiful it made Aramis ache for him.  
  
“Maybe we’re both idiots…” The grunt of laughter that punctuated the sentence spoke volumes, Aramis decided with a soft snort, before the rumbling voice breathed once more into the tiny slither of air between them,  
“…I really need to sleep now.”  
  
Aramis grinned, stepping away long enough to scrub his hands clean of the pungent aroma of the cream he'd used while the giant great lump he’d left dragged himself off the table and back into a vaguely standing position.  
  
“I don’t think that was ever in doubt…” He managed, returning to Porthos, grin still firmly in place and hauling bulky arm over his shoulders as they headed for the stairs. A pair of distinctly less than youthful men in the prime of their overcomplicated lives,  
“Either the idiocy or the sleeping…”  
  
“But I get points for admitting it.” Porthos chuckled, distributing his bodyweight distinctly unevenly between the banister and Aramis to get up the infinitely long when tired staircase. The fact that it left Aramis in no doubt of not just how much Porthos actually WEIGHED, but also how much of that weight was just rock solid muscle he was currently draping over Aramis’ own, not insubstantial frame was curiously pleasing for reasons he wasn’t going to examine too closely. Especially not when being very effectively dwarfed by a man he’d once been the same size as…albeit some twenty years ago now.  
  
“You get points taken away for not telling us though, so you‘re still at zero!” Aramis snorted when at last they stumbled into Porthos’ bedroom and staggered to the bed, Porthos’ considerable bulk landing on it with a grunt that melted into a groan when the initial pain faded and left him with merely the bliss of a soft mattress beneath him.  
  
The fact that he allowed Aramis to drag off his shoes and fuss with the covers was more than enough evidence to back up just how utterly wiped out he truly was too. The thought caused a twinge of something unidentifiable somewhere in the region of his chest and Aramis paused by the bedside until he was content the silly fool would sleep in a position unlikely to cause more damage to his back and shoulders.  
  
“You should have told us.” He said quietly, when at last, Porthos settled.  
  
“I know…” came the sleepy mumble,  
“M’sorry.”  
  
He would have left it there, a battle for another day, had it not been for the hand that suddenly caught his wrist when he moved to leave. Curious, he allowed himself to be dragged back until Porthos was blinking up at him from heavy lidded, weary eyes.  
  
For a moment, the silence stretched and Aramis felt his brows draw together in confusion before  the softest of kisses was pressed into his palm, a wordless, heartfelt apology that he felt to his core.  
  
It was unadulterated instinct that made Aramis duck down to nuzzle at dark temple in silent acceptance of the action. The lingering kiss he put there merely sealed it before he pulled up and slunk back out of the room, suddenly desperate for the comfort of his own bed and the hopefully long, dreamless sleep he could get there.  
  



	9. The Final Countdown

The huge, double front doors, Aramis decided with a narrow eyed frown at the things, were just mocking them now. It was as if the ridiculous objects didn’t WANT to open again, because god knew their collected genius had spent the entire morning trying every possible method they could come up with to get the things unstuck and as yet, it was doors - 12, humans - 0.  
  
It wasn’t a score he was in any way happy with. It also was not helping Athos’ to do list be completed and had left the hallway floor a littered chaos of WD40 cans and tools.  
  
“What about if we just break the thing down and put in a new one?” d’Artagnan wearily suggested from his worn out sprawl on the stairs beside an occupied Porthos,  
“I mean, it’s not as if it’s in great nick anyway, I bet if you put your back into it, you could just smash it…”  
  
Turning to cast him a raised brow, Aramis settled for merely gesturing at the massive expanse of flaking painted oak before them, then waving a hand over his own form, hoping the patently obvious size differences would speak for him,  
“That thing’s survived a revolution and god alone knows how many generations of ATHOS’, you think it’s going to just up and give in at the threat of my shoulder?!”  
  
d’Artagnan shrugged,  
“We tried everything else!”  
  
“He’s got a point…” Porthos huffed gruffly, mid way through creating what was surely his twentieth napkin swan.  
  
Aramis was not about to get drawn into asking how it was that the muscle of the group was fiddling about making linen swans out of borrowed tableware on the stairs when both he and d’Artagnan had been assigned to door based violence. Questioning Constance’s delegation of jobs was simply madness and he really did not relish the telling off he’d get from her if he was seen as attempting to shirk his door based duties.  
  
Speaking of…  
  
Returning his frown to those sodding doors again, he was forced to concede defeat on the point of them running out of ideas because it was really getting a bit ridiculous. Not that he was all that eager to throw himself at the things, being as they appeared to be composed of the sort of timber usually only seen in ancient battleships, but it was getting dangerously close to a personal grudge now, dammit.  
  
Maybe if PORTHOS went at it…  
  
Head tilting, fingers smoothing at his much tended facial hair, he assessed the gigantic great things for any signs of weakness. Evidently they were sadly lacking, despite the many dings and dents (quite a few of which newly acquired in the last few hours) that apparently hadn’t caused even a hint of structural problems.  
  
“Stop looking threateningly at my door and tell me you’ve learnt the vows…” Athos interrupted his thoughts by slapping an absent hand onto Aramis’ chest as he strolled by to run a careful, loving touch over the distinct screw driver based chip marks by the lock,  
“Not going well then, I take it?”  
  
More than happy to ignore the sodding door issue in favour of basically ANYTHING else, Aramis focussed his attentions on dutifully digging out the crinkled bit of paper from his pocket with a heavy sigh. He was really not loving the concept of having what amounted to lines to learn, particularly when they were VOWS, but weddings rather called for the damn things, even fake ones.  
  
Distressingly, having been presented with them over his breakfast that morning, the bloody things had been burning a hole in his pocket ever since and he was pretty sure he need never see them again in order to have them seared into his mind forever more, god help him.  
  
To have and to hold, in sickness and health, richer and poorer…all a bit antiquated and predictable for his liking, really.  
  
“They‘ve yet to leave my person, see!” he waved the scruffy bit of paper firmly in the air as proof of his, at best, half arsed dedication to studying the words printed on them.  
  
“Hmm, but do you _know_ them?” Athos asked with a pointed brow raise,  
“Need to make it convincing tomorrow, obviously.”  
  
Eyes rolling, Aramis allowed his attention to wander, catching sight of Porthos frowning down at his own crumpled bit of paper, surrounded by a growing family of little swans. The sight brought a curve to his lips that he was forced to hide before d’Artagnan could catch him gawking again. Little bastard had spent almost the entire day throwing him knowing looks and Aramis was simply not in the mood to have another one of _those_ conversations whilst in the middle of door based warfare.  
  
“You need to start practising…” Athos said abruptly, fixing Aramis with a considering look that made him twitch with the feeling that he’d just been caught out by more than just the brat and his knowing eyes.  
  
“Athos, really…” He sighed, fidgeting despite himself under the scrutiny,  
“I _know_ the damned vows…”  
  
“No, I mean practising looking like a man in love. You too Porthos!”  
  
For a second, it was all Aramis could do to blink in stunned silence, but as that was a reaction he was becoming altogether too familiar with of late, he settled instead for looking helplessly to Porthos. Apparently even that was entirely in vain hope of assistance too, since all he got was a vague shrug and eyes that refused to meet his own. Rude.  
  
“I swear to god, you make me recite poetry and I‘m walking!” He huffed with what could only be described as a desperate sigh.  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous…” Athos murmured distractedly, the bulk of his brain power clearly set on the never ending battle with his own front door again,  
“Just throw each other some loving looks, stand close together, hold hands, that sort of thing…”  
  
Utterly boggled, Aramis was reduced to wondering if he’d wandered through the looking glass by accident since apparently his friends had all taken leave of their senses. The mere concept of ATHOS handing out advice on relationships was frankly terrifying…  
  
“Your name is _RENE_?!” d’Artagnan suddenly cackled from where he’d sneakily taken full advantage of Aramis’ glazed eyed staring in horror to peer over his shoulder at the bit of paper he’d entirely forgotten he was holding,  
“HOW did I not know this before?!”  
  
“Oh like you can talk, _Charles_ …” Aramis was saved from even bothering to defend himself since Constance had materialised in the room seemingly without the need for doors, which was just as well, really, given their mornings fruitless labour. Was there no end to the woman’s talents?!  
  
The fact that she took the honours of slapping d’Artagnan up the back of the head as she passed by, her free hand bearing a tray of steaming coffee mugs she deposited on the stairs, merely endeared her to him further.  
  
d’Artagnan’s horrified expression was the icing on the hilarity based cake.  
  
“What about chipping the lock out?” Athos asked, brandishing a screwdriver with what could best be termed intent as Aramis gratefully accepted his mug from Constance, smirking over the rim of it at d’Artagnan’s glowering sulk face.  
  
“They already tried it.” Porthos muttered absently, before going back to mouthing the words from his crib sheet of vows.  
  
“Still no luck then?” Constance asked, appearing beside Aramis and fixing the doors with the sort of expression that had made grown men back up and be afraid. Very afraid.  
  
“It’s resisting on purpose…” he muttered, knocking back a mouthful of his coffee with a sniff.  
  
“Right. I’ll have a go then, you two get over there and practise being besotted…d‘Art, get outside and push when I say, please!” The look of sheer determination on her face as she strode off, already rolling her sleeves up, was enough to have Aramis jumping to get out of her way and slinking back to the stairs without a peep of protest.  
  
If there was a lesson they’d all learnt very quickly after meeting her, it was that you simply did not disobey Constance when she was in The Zone. Firstly, it was more than your life was worth, secondly and perhaps more importantly he was more than happy to never have to look at that damn door again.  
  
Dropping onto the step beside Porthos, Aramis abandoned his coffee to a higher step before propping his elbow on it, stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankle as he threw his friend a grin,  
“Now would be an excellent time for another of your escapes…in case you were planning anything…”  
  
The quirk of lips he got in return was accompanied by the flicking up of a dark brow and Porthos’ low rumble of a voice in a tone that Aramis could only describe as fond,  
“Nahh…happy where I am, thanks.”  
  
Hidden from the others by the gap between their bodies, Aramis felt a big hand close over his own on the step and turned his palm up to link their fingers together without a second thought. Holding hands seemed like a very minor allowance to give himself after an evening pummelling the knots out of over used muscles after all. That, and he was acutely aware after a morning in which nothing had been said, that Porthos was blatantly not mentioning a word of his retirement to any of the others for fear of ruining Athos’ master plan.  
  
Self sacrificing great fool. As if any one of them wouldn’t have just wanted to give him a hug and make it all better! God knew Aramis himself was struggling not to give into the impulse even now, when their makeshift family were all present to mock and tease at will.  
  
Tilting his head, he looked up and was met with the sort of relaxed, quietly pleased smile that he would have moved mountains to bring out in Porthos’ face at the best of times. The reassurance of it now, when the world appeared to have entirely lost all balance for them both was staggering in ways Aramis wasn’t capable of considering in any depth beyond the sudden and irrepressible need to be closer.  
  
It seemed the most natural thing in the world to lazily shuffle over in order to rest his temple against slightly Deep Heat scented, broad shoulder. The gentle squeeze of his hand by much larger one the final comment in their silent conversation and all that needed to be voiced during the moment of abject peace that washed over him.  
  
Sadly, however, both calm and peace were robbed of them all entirely when an ominous creaking then deafening crack signalled the front doors finally giving way and collapsing face down onto the rug in a cloud of dust.  
  
The stunned silence that followed was filled beautifully by a beaming Constance standing in the vast opening they’d left, looking like some avenging goddess clutching the scalps of her victims in the form of the hinge pins she’d pried loose,  
“Doors are open!” She cheerily announced as she stepped into the hallway and paused before them, still sprawled on the stairs together in shock based awe,  
“Oh that’s _much_ better, look at you two! Anyone’d think you were newlyweds already! Well done!”  
  
Had to hand it to the woman, she knew how to make an entrance and Aramis was far too boggled to care that Athos and d’Artagnan were both looking at them with matching, knowing smiles.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes his name is Rene. Rene d'Herblay. It's in the books (of which I am a huge fan, by the way). d'Artagnan's name is also really Charles. Charles de Batz-Castelmore d'Artagnan...feel free to mock that mouthful, I can assure you, they all do! (With the notable exception of Athos, who's name is equally longwinded!)


	10. The Day Dawns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last...there's a wedding and a little moment of wonder from a pair of idiots, one of whom just gave up holding back!

“Please tell me you’re joking…” Aramis sighed wearily, propping his shoulder against the doorframe and eyeing Constance with a raised brow and expression he hoped adequately demonstrated just how very over this whole situation he was getting.  
  
Honestly, thus far, he’d been dragged out of bed at the crack of dawn (10am) by d’Artagnan’s less than subtle breaking into his room and singing _‘Get me to the church on time’_ at frankly deafening levels, unceremoniously thrown into the shower whilst Athos forced him to repeat his lines ad inifinitum and then been robbed of his usual leisurely breakfast by Constance insisting on getting him dressed “properly“.  
  
It was nearing one in the afternoon. His patience was beyond stretched. The mere fact that he was through the stage where he could even find the energy to object that these things were only asked of him and not Porthos too was evidence of just how done he was.  
  
For a second or two in which she clearly inwardly debated whether or not this was the battle she should really be picking in this, a day undoubtedly filled with far more worthy points on which to stand her ground, Constance watched him unblinkingly.  
  
“Oh alright…” she finally muttered, dropping the bunch of flowers she’d been attempting to hand Aramis onto the side table and proceeding to gut it’s restraining ribbons with a flick knife he wasn’t even the slightest bit shocked she carried,  
“I did say it was pushing it to get you to carry a bouquet, but you know what Athos is like when he’s got an idea set in his head…”  
  
Casting a gesturing hand over his own, besuited and much primped form, Aramis settled for casting her a deadpanned look,  
“Really? I would never have guessed him to be the stubborn, likely to push his luck with his friends type…”  
  
She snorted at that, tugging a single white rose free of the puddle of flowers where once a bouquet had been and lopping it’s stalk short with a casual slice of knife,  
“Be grateful we talked him out of the flower girls and page boys! You owe us. Seriously.”  
  
He wasn’t even going to question how serious she was being. Given everything else Athos had attempted to wedge into the day, nothing would surprise him and he was just secretly praying the dark mutterings about doves from earlier in the week had failed to come to fruition.  
  
“Now…“ Constance continued, tucking the clipped rose into Aramis’ buttonhole and smoothing the line of his jacket back down over his chest with a level of attention to detail that could only come from a tailors wife. Either that or she was copping a feel. Aramis was in no mental state to even assess.  
“You haven’t seen Porthos, have you?”  
  
Momentarily feeling the icy chill of panic slide down his spine, Aramis froze beneath her fiddling hands, letting himself be prodded and pulled at as she set his suit to rights. Porthos wouldn’t have left him here, would he? Had enough and run while he still could, before Athos had managed to drag them up the aisle in this ridiculous farce…  
  
“Oh stop looking like I shot your puppy, I meant because it’s bad luck you great idiot!” Constance giggled, stepping back with a consoling pat to Aramis’ arm.  
  
The rush of relief he felt at that didn’t bear thinking about during a day this batshit.  
  
“I don’t know how to break this to you, darling Constance…” he began with his trademark, cheeky grin fixed firmly in place as he ducked to whisper against her ear,  
“But this is not real…”  
  
“Oh shut up…” she muttered, amusement rife in her tone as she gave his arm a reprimanding slap,  
“God, I really thought d’Art was just imagining things but you actually are head over heels aren’t you…”  
  
Anything he might have managed to utter from the flailing mess that was very abruptly his mind was mercifully not given a chance to see the light of day since Athos chose that very moment to open the door, harried expression firmly in place,  
“’Mis, you planning on getting your arse in here at any point or what? It‘s just that I have a room of… _guests_ awaiting the wedding of the century…”  
  
“No pressure then…” Aramis managed weakly as the distant sounds of tasteful string quartet filtered into the hallway.  
  
“Didn’t win on the flowers? Shame.” Athos muttered absently in Constance’s general direction, his eyes quickly flickering over the remains of the bouquet and blithely ignoring the six feet plus of slightly pale, regret filled burgundy velvet having a small internal crisis beside them.  
  
It did absolutely nothing to calm Aramis’ sudden realisation that he was about to stand up in front of all their friends (also a bunch of strangers, but they were considerably less important) and fake something that had become really worryingly rather real over the last week. Especially since his acting skills had apparently become so godawful, even CONSTANCE had seen straight through them. That last part, that was…not good. Not good at all.  
  
“Athos…” he began, dimly clinging to the doorframe whilst something that felt dangerously close to low level panic set in.  
  
“Alright, alright, no flowers! Now come on, don’t make me walk you up the aisle, I have to take the video…” Was all the reply he got before he was unceremoniously hauled through the door.  
  
Curiously, considering the general levels of flail he’d been experiencing _outside_ the door, the sight of the gathered audience once he was inside it calmed Aramis’ nerves back to a far more manageable level. He even managed something resembling his usual levels of charm on the walk up what he was definitely NOT calling an aisle, to the point that had this not technically been his (fake) wedding, he was pretty convinced he could have pulled at least twice. If he’d not been quietly sweating in a combination of the heat and velvet suit, he might even have made that three times. Hell with it, he’d managed more in worse circumstances, he was awarding himself the four.  
  
Sadly, anything resembling normality he’d managed to gather back to himself in that short distance was robbed of him so catastrophically that he actually stumbled the final few steps.  
  
Porthos…was in a suit.  
  
No, that underplayed the sheer majesty of what he was currently standing next to really quite substantially because it wasn’t JUST the suit. It was very assuredly the man within it, wearing it like it belonged on him and casting Aramis what could only be described as a slightly unsure, strained smile.  
  
God he was _breathtaking_ and Aramis was in a level of trouble he had failed hideously to recognise sneaking up on him.  
  
Dimly, he was aware of words from whoever the hell it was standing in front of them and the music lowering to a quiet level speech could be heard over with ease. It all surely meant the beginning of the ceremony and he couldn’t care less. Not that he was paying any of it the slightest bit of attention because there was simply no way he could manage to pry his gaze off Porthos, who looked…well, if Aramis were honest, painfully uncomfortable.  
  
That, given how calm and content he’d looked merely the day before was simply unacceptable to Aramis’ slightly fevered mind. Something needed to be done to wipe that completely unfamiliar look from eyes that were firmly NOT looking at Aramis.  
  
His ego rather objected to that, from a purely vanity based perspective, but really it was the lack of the usually ever present, piratical smile that Aramis missed the most.  
  
The sound of a throat clearing pointedly snapped his attention back from his internal wanderings and Aramis found himself blinking blankly at the amused looking official attempting to perform their ceremony,  
“This is the part with the vows, sir…”  
  
Ahh yes…those bloody VOWS.  
  
Risking a glance sideways, (and it was a risk, given the high likelihood of just falling into gazing dumbly again), Aramis took in the tense line of familiar broad shoulders and found himself reaching out to curl his hand around the slightly sweaty palm at the end of that glorious suit arm. It was more than a little heartening when at last, he was rewarded with a questioning look from beneath dark lashes.  
  
Close enough, Aramis decided, giving the hand in his own a gentle squeeze before he drew in a deep breath and began,  
“I, René Aramis d'Herblay…” he absolutely would not be put off by the audible snort from d’Artagnan in the audience because getting what would hopefully be a solid smile out of Porthos was infinitely more important than Aramis’ own pride,  
“Take you…my walking deadweight when tired, to have and hold up, if we ever get rich, and all the time we're poor, in pulled muscle and hangover, to love and use as a pillow, till death or this house separate us.”  
  
The blinding grin that crept over Porthos’ suddenly much less strained face made the entire gamble worthwhile for Aramis, the pair of them staring at each other for a moment in giddy amusement at just how ridiculous the situation truly was.  
  
“Yeah…“ Porthos’ low, laughter laced rumble graced the air and Aramis felt victory soar within him,  
“What he said…”  
  
The hushed giggles from the crowd behind them were apparently enough to spur the slightly stunned official into action once again, clearing his throat as he gathered his wits enough to pronounce them joined in some nonsense that Aramis failed spectacularly to listen to, being as he was far too occupied watching Porthos grin at him.  
  
“You may now kiss your partner…”  
  
Alright, that bit he’d heard. How was it, exactly, that during ALL of this mindless chaos, not ONCE had it occurred to him that there would be a kiss at the end of it?!  
  
For a frozen heartbeat, they stared dumbly at each other. Then, something in Porthos appeared to simply snap and Aramis was left to merely watch, blinkingly as he moved. The hand clutching his own abruptly released it, lifting to slide warm fingers along the jut of Aramis’ jaw, curling around to hold his head with infinite tenderness as Porthos ducked and wasted no time in just kissing the air right out of Aramis’ lungs.  
  
So effective was it, that for a stunned, mindless second, he was reduced to seeing stars from the lack of oxygen, knees threatening to go from under him before he got a handle on himself…and Porthos’ edible bloody suit, enough to tilt his head and actually join in.  
  
After that, it was knee weakening for whole other reasons, not least of which being that he could taste the glass of champagne Porthos had necked before he’d come into the ballroom on the tongue that was invading his mouth with frankly mind altering determination.  
  
Porthos kissed, Aramis incredibly fuzzily decided, like he’d waited a lifetime to do it. As if it were the only kiss he was ever going to get. Like he needed to make absolutely sure that the mouth he staked his claim on with such thorough, licking exploration, would be so indelibly marked by the act that it was ruined for any other. He was not, Aramis realised, wrong on that one either.  
  
As his grip on silky lapels tightened and Porthos’ spare hand found the small of his back to tug him closer, Aramis found himself in absolutely no doubt whatsoever that _nothing_ ever would come close to this again and he was _more_ than ok with that. So much so that, when at last they broke apart enough to allow a tiny slither of air into the gap between their lips, it took him a second to be able to think straight, let alone speak.  
  
“I swear to god…” he managed, chest still heaving,  
“You make me pass out by dipping me right now and I might have to kick you in the balls…there is literally no blood left in my head…”  
  
He would have been slightly ashamed at the breathless, whispering sound of his own voice, but since it was met with the predatory flash of teeth in a blindingly intense grin from Porthos, Aramis was allowing himself a moment of wobbling composure on the basis he‘d won the fight for a smile.  
  
Technically he’d lost the fight for his own knees, but prices had to be paid in times of war.  
  
“Saving you seeing stars for later.” The amusement filled, rumbling reply vibrated through him as much as was audible, since they were apparently still pressed up on each other like teenagers at a dance.  
  
Not, mind you, that Aramis was complaining. Quite the opposite, actually, since Porthos was effectively holding him upright with one big hand more or less on his arse and the other sliding into artfully dishevelled hair. The entire effect combined was… _really_ more than Aramis was capable of handling right at that moment, his huff of stunned laughter leaving him on a strangled wheeze from wide, shell shocked grin.  
  
“ _Try_ and keep it PG, people…” Athos’ thoroughly amused, quiet chuckle appeared beside them and reluctantly, Aramis made a vague attempt at peeling himself off… _Porthos_ …since apparently he was not, in fact, either dreaming or so drunk he had hallucinated that kiss. Actually, he was reasonably sure now that the rare moments he had, in fact, allowed himself that sort of dream, he had been HEAVILY underselling Porthos’ skill set…  
  
“Mesdames et Messieurs…” Athos was announcing, mere feet away from them and rudely reminding Aramis that there were other people present in the room,  
“Le couple heureux!”  
  
The polite and subtle applause was only slightly ruined by d’Artagnan’s catcalling and Constance’s wolf whistle.  
  



	11. The Charm Offensive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aramis is not dealing well with his internal crises...

“Impromptu vow change was interesting…” Athos murmured, appearing at Aramis’ side when the reporter he’d been speaking to had finally been called away,  
“Do I want to know what caused it or shall I just continue to hope everyone thought it was charmingly romantic?!”  
  
Thus far, Aramis had been collared by no less than five of the writers present at the party, each of them bending his ear and one actually going so far as to openly flirt until he’d been forced to demure and escape on the pretence of fetching drinks. The fact that, of that number, every single one of them had mentioned those ridiculous words he’d spoken without second thought rather won his point for him, but nonetheless…  
“Are you implying there may be a situation from which I cannot charm my way to freedom? Because it sounded a great deal like _doubt_ was setting in there, Athos…tsktsk…”  
  
Any reply Athos may have given was swiftly interrupted by the arrival of yet another of the bloody journalists, a gentle hand to Aramis’ velvet sleeve and wide smile to go with the purring voice,  
“Monsieur, please allow me to congratulate you on your new partnership…”  
  
Raising a brow of challenge at Athos’ amused expression, Aramis slipped into his very best, cheeky smile, patting the hand on his arm as he spoke,  
“Oh, _merci_! It has indeed been a day quite unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before and I’m so grateful to my dear friend Athos for the wonderful planning…”  
  
Said _wonderful friend_ was watching Aramis over the rim of a champagne flute, laughter dancing in his eyes despite the ‘don’t overcook it’ expression that lingered on his face. Aramis was just flat out enjoying the moment of proving that, as always, he could and would manage to wriggle out of anything using mere charm alone.   
  
“Those were unusual vows, did you write them yourself?” The woman was asking, inching ever closer to her prey and leaving Aramis quietly pondering if maybe he should have escaped the corner of the room a bit quicker.   
  
He could feel Athos pause beside him though, feel the slight tension in his friends shoulders at the desperate thought that perhaps this whole, massive, ridiculous gamble may not actually work…  
  
“Ahh yes…” Aramis began, free hand drifting to press over his heart as he deliberately let his eyes fall to the side in flawless imitation of bashful, love struck emotion,  
“I wanted it to be something deeply personal and meaningful to us both, something…” he paused, as if seeking quite the right words to wrap around his heartfelt confession. Beside him, the reporter practically held her breath,  
“Something that spoke of all he means to me…”  
  
“That is so beautiful…” the reporter murmured, well and truly sold, and Aramis flicked a triumphant glance over her head to Athos’ rueful headshake and reluctant smile.  
  
He absolutely was not thinking about just how close to reality that explanation had actually come. Not even a little bit. At all.  
  
“If you’ll excuse us, Madame…” Athos was saying, carefully easing Aramis’ arm free of her grip with a solicitous smile,  
“I fear we may be needed for some photographs…”  
  
Aramis let himself be led away with a swift smile in her general direction before plucking a glass of champagne from a passing waiters tray to neck it in one. Hopefully, he decided, feeling the bubbles tingle in his throat, it would ease some of the slight reminder of just how truly fucked he was here. At least enough that he could actually look at Porthos again without viscerally reliving every second of that damn kiss.  
  
“Alright, you got away with that one…” Athos chuckled, gripping at velvet sleeve with a determined tug that Aramis suddenly became aware was heading in a direction he very much did not want to go in. That way lay a very literal madness in the form of Porthos, casually chatting away with the others as if nothing at all was wrong. Like the world hadn’t, in fact, tilted on it’s axis standing on the dais at the front of the very room they were now milling about in.   
  
He was still in that suit too.  
  
“Come and talk to everyone, you‘ve been working the floor all afternoon…”  
  
That…just no. Aramis was very definitely not up to mindless chit chat with the man who barely an hour ago had very firmly explored every inch of his mouth with a tongue in front of their best friends and a room full of strangers. Getting close enough to speak to him would have caused a distinct level of tongue tied (HAHA…ha…oh god), hopeless, internal flailing that Aramis had rather thought he’d grown out of somewhere around aged fifteen and was in no hurry to return to just yet, thank you.  
  
No, what he needed, clearly, was a bit of space to clear his head. Get himself back into something vaguely resembling normal. At least to a mental space that allowed him to cope with pretending like this entire, _insane_ situation had never happened, anyway. At some point, he might even be able to do so without having the feeling of Porthos pressed up against him seared into his every waking thought.  
  
That should be easy enough, he’d had enough practise at it, after all…a lifetime of denial should stand him in good stead for this…  
  
Across the room, the man himself looked up and Aramis managed a reasonably steady breath when their eyes met. That, that was progress, right there. Personal growth, even, one might say. He wasn’t about to test just how far his own stretched restraint might hold up, however, dropping his gaze and clearing his throat to find his voice,  
“More reporters to charm, do excuse me…” he managed, dragging his arm free of Athos’ grip to dive into the throng of people again and ignore the confused call of his name.  
  
Aramis had always found safety in a crowd, especially one filled with eager journalists already plied with a free bar and more stolen buffet food than they knew what to do with. They were painfully easy to move between too, a handshake here, a little quip there, the gentle flow of a party was his natural habitat and he worked it well. Admitting it was little more than a long, deliberately sought, cowards way out of the situation could wait until the undoubtedly hungover morning.  
  
Distressingly, he’d only managed to do three polite nod and chit-chat based circuits of the room before he was collared once again, this time by Constance who immediately set about rectifying the apparently unacceptable state of his clothing. That in itself was something of a first for Aramis, not noticing such things, since usually he was the first to admit he couldn’t pass a mirror without looking at himself in it. Clearly the day was getting to him still. Maybe he should just aim for getting leglessly drunk and hope to pass out under the long table groaning under the weight of the cake Constance had painstakingly baked for them.  
  
“Good god what do those hacks do to you when they feel you up…” The woman herself muttered darkly, flicking errant fluff and bits of sausage roll pastry off his suit before fixing him with The Stern Face.  
  
It did not calm his nerves.  
  
“Why are you hiding?”   
  
Had to hand it to Constance, there was just zero space for bullshit within her and she refused point blank to allow any of them to even attempt wriggling out of things they’d rather not do. The fact that all of that had effectively made her their babysitter for any official events was not lost on Aramis. He felt like an awkward teenager and it was not an enjoyable experience. He hadn’t been this awkward when he WAS a teenager, being forced into an excessively delayed, second puberty now was unacceptable on every possible level!  
  
“I have no idea what you mean!” He said, the easy smile undoubtedly so false she would see straight through it, but nonetheless, the best he could manage in the circumstances,  
“I’m merely enjoying my… _wedding_ …”  
  
God, even the word left such a bitter taste in his mouth.  
  
She paused for a moment, frowning up at him and Aramis had the uncomfortable feeling she was reading his soul in that peculiar, continually right way of hers,  
“I always took you for a smart man, ‘Mis. Don’t be a genuine idiot and let this slide.”   
  
And then she was gone, leaving Aramis blinking in her wake, entirely unsure what had just happened but feeling like he may have committed the cardinal sin of disappointing her horribly without really understanding how or what he‘d done.  



	12. The Facing of Fears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh this fic. 30k of living proof that no matter how much research you do and no matter how many people who've actually been through the situation in question's testimony you get in the name of covering your ground, you will still not get the thing factually accurate.
> 
> C'est la vie.
> 
> I'll admit I contemplated not finishing it when I found out, but frankly I'm too invested in the dopey great idiots not to, so on we go, into a world of pure, unadulterated fiction without a single toe in reality, apparently.

Parties, Aramis had decided, tucking himself into a well hidden corner with a bottle of champagne (the cheaper end) and a slab of Constance’s incredibly delicious cake, were utterly overrated. There had been a time, not even that long ago, if he were being brutally honest, when his social life had consisted of a long line of interchangeable venues, drinks and whatever warm body he felt like taking to his bed that night and it had been more than fun. Now, however, grumpily pouring himself another glass, he was starting to long for the moment when the booze kicked in and he could feel something other than distinctly off kilter in ways he couldn’t quite fix.  
  
One thing was for sure though, he most assuredly was _not_ drunk enough to ignore the low level sense of foreboding that crept up on him when he watched d’Artagnan bounce on to the dais at the front of the room, microphone in hand.  
  
“Mesdames et Messieurs…” He began with a distinctly glee filled note to his voice that immediately made Aramis twitch in the knowledge that usually, that tone heralded extremely BAD things,  
“It is my GREAT pleasure…” and now the kid was just hamming it up…  
“To introduce to you the happy couple for their first dance…”  
  
Oh that little _bastard_.  
  
Quickly, he whipped his head around to where he knew without even having consciously registered it, Porthos had been sat, talking to Athos, across the room and felt the weight of a gaze as panicked as his own settle over him. Perfect, at least neither one of them wanted to do it, that should make it look terribly convincing then. This was going to end so poorly.  
  
On the impromptu stage, d’Artagnan was calling for them as the crowd politely parted to make way for a dance floor and Aramis took a second to draw in a deep, less than settling breath. Alright, they’d got into this whole thing because Athos had needed them, that was still true, wasn’t it? It was reason enough to get up and do something as innocuous as dance with the man you’d just pretended to marry, wasn’t it? Of course it was. Now he just had to actually do it…  
  
Not enough booze in the world, he decided, rising to his feet with the clenched jaw of a man going to the gallows. Still, this was for Athos and the damn house that had been their home since they were all too young and stupid to really understand the gift the place had given them all in the form of safety and freedom. He could do this.  
  
He knew the very second Porthos was at his side on the edge of the dance floor, even before the smattering of applause at their appearance had rung out and silently, Aramis wondered if he’d always had this awareness of his friend and simply never noticed. It seemed unfeasible that he’d got through their entire lives together without spotting something as world tilting as the knowledge that your entire universe revolved around another human being in that way.  
  
“You can lead, you‘re the dancer…” he muttered, still refusing to look up and meet those dark eyes as they stepped onto the floor together.  
  
“Can’t dance.”  
  
Alright, that made his head snap up, brows drawing together as a huff of startled laughter escaped him. And that was all before he saw the tense line of Porthos’ shoulders or the worry etched in his suddenly very sad eyes.  
  
“Your entire career would suggest otherwise…” Aramis managed, attempting a reassuring smile because really, not a great deal in the world mattered more than keeping that desolate look off Porthos‘ face.  
  
Of course, now he HAD, he was completely unable to look anywhere else since he’d once again fallen into the trap of keeping hungry gaze firmly on the one person he could watch for days and never grow bored of.  
  
“S’ballet, not…this…” Porthos almost whispered, a wry, humourless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.  
  
“Right. Well that should certainly make the evening more interesting then…” Aramis dumbly replied, only dimly aware that there was music starting and d’Artagnan’s annoyingly rather talented voice had begun to announce them,  
“Just…follow me, this should be child’s play to you…no lifts or anything!”  
  
The attempt at levity in the whole hot mess at least brought the ghost of a much more genuine smile to Porthos’ face and Aramis felt them both relax marginally as between them, they fumbled through the first couple of steps together.  
  
It took another few moments for Aramis to actually realise what was being played, the dawning knowledge making his head snap back up from where he’d been attempting to not get stepped on by giant feet to cast a dark glare at the stage. d’Artagnan merely smirked, sliding into the lyrics with the smuggest look known to mankind on his face,  
 _“At last… my love has come home…my lonely days are over…and life is like a song…”_  
  
“I am going to _kill_ that brat… _slowly_ …with his own microphone…”  
  
The rumbling huff of laugher Aramis’ hissed statement dragged from Porthos was enough to put a genuine grin back on both faces and finally, without any reason beyond the common enemy, Aramis felt tension leave him in waves. So seamless was the switch that he barely noticed the point when he ceased to be leading them and Porthos took over. He didn’t even get to blink before he found himself lazily spun with the grace that only someone classically trained in dance could manage, either, and he laughed, throwing his partner a raised brow  
“I think you might have to change your plea on the dancing skills thing…”  
  
It was beyond his control not to smile again when Porthos tugged him back to the easy press of his body and they turned together as if they’d done it a thousand times before.  
  
“I had a good teacher…” was all the reply he got, warm breath against his ear as the words were pressed there like a kiss and his hand was squeezed by a much larger one, whilst pressed to the immaculate chest of that damn suit.  
  
Was it entirely acceptable to be dancing _quite_ this closely on your wedding day? Well no, close implied there was still some air between them and that would have been a flat out lie, what with the hand at his back holding him absolutely flush against the increasingly crinkled glory of that suit. The fact that his own not clutched warmly to ridiculously broad chest was currently curved over the custom tailoring of a shoulder just to help out with keeping them effectively wearing each other was neither here nor there, either.  
  
It took him more time than it should have to realise that the music had stopped, and they were left in the middle of the dance floor, wrapped in each other and just grinning like idiots. Maybe, he decided when the floor around them began to fill with other couples and the soft play of music began again, he could survive this after all. It wasn’t anything that out of the ordinary for them, really. All the parties they’d ever attended in their youth where they’d ended up dancing together before had never altered their relationship, after all.  
  
Admittedly, the dancing then had been more brainlessly jumping about like drunken fools than this slow, delicious press of bodies. Aramis really didn’t ever remember Porthos nuzzling into his neck in a way that severely endangered Aramis’ knees and their ability to hold him up, either, but the basic premise was the same, wasn’t it? That they’d known each other too long for something as ridiculous as Aramis’ inability to control his own feelings to ever get in the way?  
  
Either way, as he felt the hand at his back slide so an arm could curl around his waist to squeeze, Aramis found it so comfortably outside of the scope of his care, he began to wonder what on earth he’d ever been worried about. This? This was simply the easiest thing in the world and while he should probably have seen that realisation as a sign of impending doom, he settled instead for letting Porthos rest his head against velvet clad shoulder as they lazily moved to the distant sounds of the band on stage.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, d'Artagnan is singing At Last, my favourite version of which belongs to Etta James. :-)


	13. The Floral Halo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed I put up the final chapter number...annnd then changed it, because apparently I'm incapable of leaving a story without an epilogue to finish it off. Effectively, what you end up with is 14 chapters and then an add on...there's logic in there somewhere, but it felt like it was needed and yes, *KAFF* alright, I am finding reasons to not end this because despite everything, I have enjoyed the hell out of it and I'll miss them HORRIBLY when it's done.

There were flowers in d’Artagnan’s hair, Aramis noted with a snort of laughter as he dropped into the empty chair beside Athos’s sprawled form. Content to sit in companionable, amused silence, they watched the frankly hilarious sight of the lad, Porthos and Constance drunkenly swirling about the dance floor in a flail of limbs. Lives may well be lost.  
  
Despite having been going for more hours than was probably wise, the party was showing no signs of slowing up and the band had long since packed up to make room for the traditional, truly awful DJ choices instead. It had left Aramis utterly unsurprised by the fact that the first strains of anything poptastic had drawn d’Artagnan out to dance what with the lad being a minefield of godawful, music based obsession. His inability to ignore a dance floor was legend at this point, that he’d dragged the others out there with him was just an unusual bonus that allowed Aramis to simply enjoy watching his friends looking carefree and being themselves.  
  
The flowers though, those were a new and hilarious touch. He was fairly certain they were actually the remains of the bouquet Constance had attempted to get him to carry…  
  
Beside him, Athos threw him a contented grin, already reaching for the champagne bottle at his elbow to top up Aramis’ almost empty glass as he spoke,  
“I think we can call the day a success, don’t you?”  
  
“Ohh I think so…” Aramis chuckled, nodding in the direction of a group of gleefully dancing journalists and one previously VERY straight laced editor bouncing about to WHAM.  
  
All things considered, his own, _minor crises_ aside, the day had gone rather well indeed. That may have been the not inconsequential quantity of booze he’d tucked away talking of course, but any problems stemming from that wouldn’t raise their head until the morning and he certainly wasn’t _drunk_. Merely pleasantly tipsy and finding the world a much less stressful environment as a result. Mercifully the three plates of stodgy cake he’d inhaled had soaked up a good portion of the cheap plonk or the story may have been rather different of course.  
  
Looking at his three friends on the dance floor, at least two of them could do with a similar application of baking based assistance. Fairly soon at that or there would be tears before bedtime.  
  
“I don’t think I ever thanked you…” Athos was throwing him a look that spoke of altogether more emotion than was probably wise when they were both a bit tiddly and currently watching the three people they loved being that happy.  
  
“You never have to.” Aramis smiled easily, settling more comfortably into his chair,  
“Brothers, remember?”  
  
For a moment, Athos merely watched him, clearly debating whether he was so drunk that saying anything further would end with them both sobbing into each other’s shoulders and declaring undying love. Evidently whatever he saw warned him off enough to just nod, a smile that curving over his mouth and taking years of his face.  
  
“Always.” He finally murmured, reaching over to clink his glass against Aramis’.  
  
On the dance floor, d’Artagnan span on a flourish and immediately tripped over his own, alcohol assisted feet to land in a giggling heap, Constance taking the concept of pointing and laughing very literally beside him. Porthos, however, was at least attempting to drag the lad up again, even though the wide grin on his face rather belied how much fun he was having failingly doing so.  
  
It took three attempts and even then, d’Artagnan swayed hard enough to need to be held up by one of Porthos’ huge hands on his shoulder, his impromptu floral halo askew and wilting.  
  
The image was so ridiculously endearing, Aramis was helpless but to huff a chuckle as he shook his head,  
“Good lord, it’s a flower fairy…what _does_ he look like?!”  
  
“My more florid, happy dreams…” came the contented reply from Athos’ grin, his eyes fixed firmly on d’Artagnan’s flailing form and Aramis found himself realising for the first time, with a sudden clarity, the true depth of love between his two friends.  
  
Realistically, it wasn’t that he hadn’t known it before. Of course he had, they’d all shared a house for years, after all, but knowing a thing abstractly and being faced with the unmistakable evidence of it writ large across the face of a man who had struggled so hard to find happiness were two wholly separate things. It was strangely humbling to watch.  
  
Any further deep and meaningful musings were lost to Aramis when a thoroughly three sheets to the wind Constance appeared before him, kidnapping his glass to empty it in one gulp herself. Evidently vastly content she’d managed the feat, she abandoned it to the table again, catching his hand and hauling on it with surprising strength for someone so far gone,  
“Come and dance with me ‘Mis! You’ve been skulking about half the night avoiding the floor, don’t think I haven’t noticed!”  
  
Her free hand rose to hazily wobble a finger in his face for a moment before she stumbled over her own shoes and Aramis was forced to catch her lest she faceplant into sprung floor,  
“Alright…” he chuckled, nudging her in the right direction,  
“But only if you lead since apparently you’re the dancing queen…”  
  
“S’right, I TOTALLY am and you’re n’idiot…” Excellent, the slurring little minx was already casting aspersions on his character and they’d barely hit the dance floor! It didn’t really bode well for this little adventure, but at least she was still beaming happily as she artlessly bounced around him, boundless in her energy and flush with the booze. Maybe it was just her youth? Either way it was beyond him, Aramis himself was more tired than he could remember being in quite some time.  
  
“Why am I an idiot then, darling Constance?” He asked with a weary smile, holding her hand as she flailed gleefully. Many similar nights had taught him the best approach here was to let her vent her spleen over whatever imagined issue she felt they all had whilst she was somewhat _merry_ , so at least she was less likely to deck them for it. The operative word being _less_.  
  
Keeping a solid hold of her hand was most definitely for both of their safeties in such situations too.  
  
“Cos you’re gonna hide again and not tell him, aren’t you…” Aramis was at a loss to tell if that had actually been a question or not since it was spoken on an apparently dizzying spin that left her swaying into his chest on a giggle. He was, however, fully aware that his expected role in this was to prevent physical injury and be berated in a suitable manner, so he settled for fixing a suitably chastened expression to his face.  
  
Apparently it was the correct response since violence was not forthcoming and Constance was squinting up at him with hazy eyes, having plastered herself to his chest in a last ditch attempt to remain upright,  
“You’ll regret it soooo much f’you dun tell him…I think you’re both huples…hiplus…USELESS in love with each other and s’just SILLY not to be together…IDIOTS…”  
  
Blinking down at her for a moment, Aramis was, not for the first time that day, struck by the knowledge that evidently everyone they knew had seen straight through his pitiful acting. It probably said a great deal about his current mental state that he was actually too knackered to really care, too. Of course there was, _mercifully_ , the fact that they were all also completely legless and unlikely to remember a word of any conversation they took part in _tonight_ when they crawled out of their beds t _omorrow_. It was something he was increasingly grateful for, given the apparent topic du jour.  
  
“Duly noted…” he managed with what he hoped was a convincing smile. It felt pasted on even to him, but he was relying on the champagne to blur it enough to convince Constance and her perceptive eyes. She’d either decided the telling off was over with, or perhaps was just too lost in the music and booze to continue a solid train of thought? Either way worked for Aramis since she span off on a giggling tangent, crashing into d’Artagnan and sending them both to the floor again.  
  
At least they were happy.  
  
Aramis himself, however, was feeling less than perky and increasingly in need of a solid drink in which to drown his many and varied sorrows. The overarching weary, emotional exhaustion was starting to get to him more than a little and he wasn’t nearly drunk enough to engage in a nice, oblivious passing out somewhere until it all went away. Generally speaking, all he really wanted right at that moment was to not be where he could be reminded of what he didn’t have.  
  
Rather tricky at a bloody WEDDING.  
  
Glancing over, he watched as d’Artagnan was deposited in Athos’ lap by a grinning Porthos, Constance struggling hopelessly to get her legs to work from the floor beside them. If he were very lucky, they might actually not notice him making a break for it now…  
  
It was worth a shot and barely required a second thought to be weaving through the crowd, pausing only to snatch a half full bottle of bubbly from a cooler on his way. The garden, when it greeted him with darkness and a marginally less oppressive heat, was the perfect spot for a man attempting to escape his own wedding.  
  
Swampy, mosquito infested if you were anywhere near the pond and only dimly lit, no one in their right minds would be out there now. Not many people in their right minds used it in the day time, if he were honest. Now, dark and dank as ever, it suited his mood enough for him to release a heavy sigh and settle himself against the hideous stone balustrade Athos had insisted they put around the chipped stonework of the patio. Peace was good. Infinitely preferable to the thumping sounds of 80’s classics coming from the DJ booth, at least, and Aramis forced himself to relax minutely.  
  
In the morning, he decided, absently swatting a mosquito on his neck and tilting the bottle to his lips in eager swallow, everything would be fine and they could all go back to normal again. It would be perfectly average a day, and the party clean up would do away with any last vestiges of uncomfortable thoughts. That, and the hangover…  
  
The sound of clicking heels getting ever closer worked it’s way into his muzzy head and Aramis slumped, head in hand,  
“Constance…please not more random shouting at me tonight, I’m too tired to…”  
  
“Hello again, such a shame we didn‘t get to finish our conversation before, what lucky timing I had finding you out here…”  
  
Bloody reporters, they were like blood hungry WOLVES! Worse still, it was the one that had been so outright flirtatious that even Aramis had wondered what kind of a woman used a wedding to chat up the groom! Still, there was no getting out of it now. Athos was going to pay through the nose for this…  
  
“Drink?” he managed, a passable, if weary smile on his face and the bottle held up to glint wetly in the lowlight.  
  
“Lovely!” She purred.  
  
Aramis found himself completely befuddled how it was that he’d ever done this for fun.  
  



	14. The Great Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And lo...the end is near...it's time to face, the final chapter... Yeah, no one's really disputing I did it my way are they *snort* Notes at the end to avoid spoilerage!

She was definitely getting closer, Aramis noted with a slight wince. In fact, all things considered, he was lucky the bloody woman hadn’t just climbed him like a tree already and been done with the social niceties she seemed determined to use on him first. It was strange, really. Usually this variety of situation at the end of a party would have been called a result in his mental tick box of the evening, but tonight, the spirit was unwilling and the body was starting to crave an empty bed to crash in. Really rather a lot. He was _bored_ , to be quite honest.  
  
Maybe he could remind her that this was, in fact, supposed to be his wedding. _Again_.  
  
Taking a measured and very obvious step backwards, out of her personal space by several inches, Aramis felt his hip bump the corner of the elegant stone balustrade and once again found himself silently cursing Athos. Honestly, if those bloody things hadn’t been there, he could just have slithered out onto the lawn and hoped she wasn’t stupid enough to follow him into a swamp you really had to know well to traverse…  
  
There was her hand on his chest. AGAIN. She’d already closed the gap between them too and was rambling on with a slightly glazed eyed, drink and lust filled expression, utterly unaware of Aramis’ sigh and swift gulp of champagne direct from the bottle he was gripping with increasingly white knuckles.  
  
“Excuse me…”  
  
It was truly unnatural, he decided, finding the first genuine smile he’d managed in hours appear over his face, for a man the size of Porthos to be cat footed enough to sneak up on them that easily. Aramis was never, EVER, going to complain about it again, however, since the journalist was backing up off him with alarming speed and Porthos’ big hand was closing around a velvet clad bicep, voice a dark rumble,  
“You’re needed indoors…now.”  
  
The words were entirely ruined to anyone who knew that face by the amusement in Porthos’ eyes, the mischievous twitch of a dark brow was the clincher for Aramis though, and he was forced to school his face into something less obvious than a massive, beaming grin lest he give them away. Mind you, that would rely on the woman who’s name he’d long forgotten already to be compus mentus enough to fathom the subtle intricacies of the situation through her drunken haze…  
  
“Oh, right! Well, duty calls…” Aramis said perkily, smiling as he passed the bottle over to the woman suddenly looking a great deal less content with her lot in the evening.  
  
Porthos was apparently not in the mood to linger, since he’d already begun to move, the hand on Aramis’ arm not letting up for a moment and dragging him along in his wake until they turned the corner of the chateau, feet crunching on the gravel side path. Just to be on the safe side, Aramis looked back to check they weren’t being followed, finally releasing a huff of laughter in relief when the path remained clear.  
  
“God, _thank you_! She was not taking _’uninterested boredom’_ as an answer…” He beamed, speeding his step up enough to catch up to Porthos’ already long stride and catching sight of his very favourite, pirate smile glittering in the low light around the words it formed,  
“In that case, she‘ll probably follow us…”  
  
For a moment, they just watched each other, broad smiles and glee in their faces…and then they were both running, giggling like children, racing around the side of the house to burst in through the now fixed front doors. If there was a slightly undignified, scrabbling little tussle at the base of the staircase when Porthos physically dragged Aramis out of the way to hit them first and take the lead, well, neither of them would admit it later.  Similarly, they would both deny the out of breath, lactic acid filled muscles that slowed them slightly at the top, but the falling into the honeymoon suite together to slam the door and press ears against it? That one they owned between them.  
  
For breathless, stifled giggling moments, Aramis kept still enough to determine they had escaped without being followed. Then, as his lungs stopped burning and his senses settled back down from the ridiculous adrenaline high, he became rather more aware of just how closely Porthos was standing. The startling realisation was followed almost immediately by Aramis amending it to also include the fact that he could feel warm breath against his neck and a big hand at his hip.  
  
“Hear anyone?” Was whispered, hot and heady, close enough to his ear to drag a shuddering breath out of Aramis’ once again oxygen starved body. This was getting so entirely out of hand, he decided, absolutely prepared to ignore the clench of his hand on the door handle since it was either grip that or do something very stupid indeed with one of his best friends.  
  
“Don’t think so.” he managed, voice a hoarse murmur as he turned in the cage of Porthos’ body to find the frankly staggering sight of dark, heavy lidded eyes staring at him with something Aramis was absolutely not going to try identifying. Not when he was altogether too busy convincing his hands to stay on the damn door. That was really quite imperative when placed within touching distance of Porthos’ chest in that suit.  
  
If he looked closely enough, Aramis could identify the wrinkles and kinks he’d put into once immaculate lapels during what he was forever going to term That Kiss. The thought was not a calming one. At all.  
  
“Been a bit crazy, today…”  
  
That was the understatement of the century and Aramis made his feelings clear with a soft snort at Porthos’ quiet words. Even for a ragtag bunch of miscreants like them, days in which you faked your own wedding were definitely a new level of batshit insane, and they’d done a lot of things left of the sensible line in their time!  
  
The flood of memories the thought brought forth managed something Aramis himself had failed spectacularly at and relaxed him immensely. This, after all, was merely the latest in a long line of ridiculous events in their shared lives that eventually, they’d all come back to look upon with the same fond smiles they reserved for past antics.  
  
Probably.  
  
The nagging feeling that this one had been rather more soul exposing than usual remained, but the hand at his hip squeezed in a silent, comforting nudge of thick fingers, Porthos shifting his weight to settle more comfortably and Aramis entirely lost his train of thought.  
  
“Glad it was you.” The familiar purr in the air held a distinct note of something odd that made Aramis find his mental feet again enough to frown up, unspoken question in his eyes.  
  
“If I ever had to marry anyone…” Porthos continued, deathly quiet,  
“Glad it was you…” He finished on a mumble, suddenly looking distinctly less than sure of himself in a way so very NOT Porthos that Aramis felt alarm bells ringing in his distinctly foggy mind.  
  
On the other hand, they might have been wedding bells, Athos had been very keen on that mp3 bell track earlier…  
  
“Yeah?” Aramis managed, struggling to do more than blink, wide eyed and utterly floored at quite what that admission actually meant. Not that he was _sure_ what it meant, because this week had evidently brought his usually reliable mental faculties to a grinding halt.  
  
“Yeah.” Was all the response he was apparently going to get, however, which really did not assist in any way at all, even if it had been laced with fond amusement. Then Porthos smiled, the corners of his lips tilting into the soft grin he saved for when they were alone together and Aramis hoarded like a dragon with his treasure. It made looking anywhere but that immensely kissable mouth suddenly an impossibility and Aramis forced himself to drag in a breath so he could form words,  
“Me too.”  
  
Had he meant to say that? Even as he pondered it, he realised unwaveringly that it was true. For their entire lives, there had never been anyone else Aramis had ever even contemplated as longer term than a few days. Weeks at most. Porthos, though…Porthos had been with him for a lifetime, knew him inside out and could accurately predict with uncanny frequency just how hungover he would be in the morning after every night out.  
  
Wasn’t that just essentially marriage? When someone knew you well enough to be able to say you’d be needing the double espresso and extra jam on the croissants in the morning? When it was you needed company and when you craved space and your own time? Porthos had never once complained on the nights when the booze, sex and endless parties had failed to ease the inexplicable, unsettled feeling that plagued Aramis and left him crawling into a bed not his own just to be held.  
  
Something about that internal revelation must have shown on his face because Porthos was watching him with dark, heavy lidded eyes. It would have been ridiculous to claim he fell right into them and didn’t ever want to get out again. The variety of poetic nonsense Athos used on d’Artagnan when he was feeling romantic, but there really wasn’t any other way to describe it. A sudden moment of aching stillness in the air. The hand not comfortably at home on Aramis’ hip reaching up to smooth the pad of a thumb over lips that parted on a sigh Aramis was reasonably sure he’d meant as a name.  
  
“’Mis…?”  
  
Curious, how that ridiculous nickname had never seemed quite so loaded with meaning before, but then, Aramis decided as he drew in a shuddery breath, he’d never heard Porthos say it like that before. No one had ever said it like that before and he realised, in the blink of an eye, that he never wanted anyone _else_ to ever say it like that again.  
  
His answer suddenly became incredibly easy, after that. It was once again the simplest thing in the world to slide his hands over those bloody lapels. To fist them into the fabric as he moved up and dragged Porthos down, meeting somewhere in the middle of the few inches between them in what could best be described, he muzzily mused, as a bruising kiss.  
  
Suddenly more than frantic, since now the floodgates had opened it seemed as if neither of them were in any way capable of stopping, he felt the low groan of pleasure from Porthos vibrate through them. He might even have answered it with one of his own had the air not been effectively and ruthlessly removed from his lungs in a combination of being shoved up against the door hard enough to make it rattle and that MOUTH raiding his.  
  
It was electric, a tangible curl of fire that started where broad hands framed his hips and hit a crescendo somewhere around his heart. Not that he had any time to consider that, because he was suddenly rather more concerned with ripping the damn buttons off Porthos’ shirt in a desperate attempt to get at the delicious body beneath it.  
  
Apparently it was a shared idea since he felt as much as heard the give of velvet, sparing not even a second to mourn it since Porthos had managed to yank his shirt free and was delving a hand beneath it, skin on skin at last. The groan he released into the mouth attempting to rob him of anything like sense caused Porthos to pull up minutely, both of them panting into the slither of air between them for a second before Aramis felt a thick thigh wedge itself between his own and actually _whimpered_.  
  
Any other time, he might have been slightly ashamed at that, but that day was NOT today. Not when it was met with a growl, an honest to god growl, that found a previously undiscovered direct line between his aural senses and his aching cock enough to make him cling, one handed, to the remains of Porthos’ much abused lapel. Not when he’d finally managed to rid Porthos’ shirt of enough buttons to just rip it open with the other hand, to dive in, licking and biting his way up the column of exposed throat that was his for the taking.  
  
The low grunt he got when he sank his teeth into the thick band of muscle where neck met shoulder, was a bass heavy accompaniment to the thundering of his own pulse in his ears and he sucked a bruise on top of the bite for good measure. There was a heady rush that went with making Porthos, usually such a gentle giant, forcibly pin him to the door in revenge for the undoubtedly mouth shaped mark he’d left in his wake. Doubly so when he felt warm lips at his ear, sucking the lobe into that staggeringly talented mouth before biting down on it hard enough that Aramis momentarily wondered if he was going to last longer than five minutes under the onslaught.  
  
Clearly very done with patience and waiting on Aramis to get anything done in a timely manner, Porthos gave a sinuous, delicious roll of his hips, his hand sliding down until he could reach velvet clad backside and drag Aramis into a steady rhythm of give and take against his thigh. It was breath stealing and swiftly becoming an unignorable need, as if all the years they’d both held back had come spilling out between them and left them clinging desperately to one another. Hands moving restlessly in hair and at hips, foreheads pressed together, and kiss swollen lips panting into the suddenly thin air they shared, shuddering on the edge without even a hand between them.  
  
Dimly aware that they were both mere seconds from losing the tenuous control they had left, Aramis used the last surge of energy available to him to grip the ruined lapel of Porthos’ suit and yank his head down. He wasn’t even sure, in the end, whether it was the knowledge that Porthos was right there with him, or the hungry, tongue tangling kiss they met in that shoved him into mindless release.  
  
Aramis couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even manage to keep his eyes open to watch the guttural groan of his name escape Porthos. He was too lost in the feeling of his own back becoming a whip curve, the hands on him tightening to bruise as he came hard enough for his head to spin and his much abused knees to finally give out beneath him.  
  
Evidently even Porthos and his innate strength had limits, because when at last Aramis gathered enough of his dazed mind to open his eyes again, he discovered himself sprawled astride a familiar lap, draped against a chest heaving as much as his own. The thought brought a dopey smile to his lips, blindly groping about for the hand on his thigh to link their fingers together,  
“Christ…you were not kidding about the stars…” He huffed, breathless and giddy on oxytocin.  
  
The rumbling purr of a chuckle that oozed into the sticky, warm air between them was Aramis’ new favourite thing, he decided, finally finding the strength to lift his head and grin at Porthos’ immensely content face. That was a look he was going to put there as much as possible, for as long as possible, just for the purely selfish reason that it gave him what could only be described as _warm fuzzies_. It was a thought that a mere fortnight ago would have sent him running to the hills, yet now, seemed to settle something within him that he’d never actually realised wasn’t right.  
  
“Did I break you?” Porthos asked, dark brow slithering up in smug amusement.  
  
That was a good look on him too, but Aramis was swiftly becoming aware that he might be slightly biased on that front. Slightly, hopelessly, _utterly_ biased.  
  
Eyes flickering pointedly down to the sticky mess of both their suit trousers between them, Aramis smirked, deliberately rolling his hips just for the short grunt of air Porthos released as his hands came to rest back on much abused, velvet clad hips,  
“I believe that was a mutual breakage…but don’t let me stop you trying again. Repeatedly. If you could actually manage to get us both naked and a hand on my cock next time, that would be appreciated too! In fact, just take this as carte blanche to jump me whenever you feel the need…”  
  
That was enough to get a full and hearty laugh as Porthos let his head thunk back to the door he’d propped his back against and Aramis got utterly lost in the sight of it. This, he realised, reaching his free hand up to smooth over beard roughened, dark cheek in a stroking caress, was what it felt like to love and be loved, then. He could live with that. More than live with it, it felt disturbingly like something he’d been _missing_.  
  
The laughter slid into an easy, wide grin and Porthos caught the hand at his cheek to press a kiss into the palm,  
“Noted, but you might have to wait until the morning, darlin‘. Hundred and four, remember…”  
  
“Pffft, we just came in our pants like teenagers, we are not old!” Aramis huffed, eyes sliding to the side to hide the ridiculous level of teenaged glee that went through him at the casual endearment. Christ, if he kept this up, his cheeks may actually remember how to BLUSH!  
  
Clearing his throat, he attempted to shift his knees on the hard floor and instantly regretted it, bones creaking at the exertion he’d abused them with and Porthos throwing him a knowing smile,  
“Alright..“ he muttered with an eye roll,  
“We might be a little bit old, but that’s no excuse!”  
  
“We’re also more than half cut…sleep now, jumping tomorrow.” Porthos replied with a lazy nuzzle against the shredded remains of Aramis’ shirt collar that left him melting more than a little bit.  
  
He probably had a point, there had been a disturbingly high booze to food ratio for them both and after…well. Bed, bed would be lovely, and tomorrow there would be plenty of time for all the things they should probably voice once and for all, but for now, there was Porthos and his smiling eyes and it was more than enough.  
  
Forcibly dragging his attentions from his living chair, Aramis glanced over his shoulder at the ridiculous ’honeymoon suite’ bed behind them. It took a second of mindless blinking before his orgasm stunned brain could manage to process what he was looking at and his brows drew together in confusion,  
“Porthos…why is the bed covered in rose petals?”  
  
Any answer he may have been given became rather moot when a cheery, altogether too perky voice from outside the door called,  
“YOU’RE WELCOMEEEE!”  
  
The stunned silence it left in it’s wake was filled fully with the distinct, fading sounds of both d’Artganan and Constance giggling as they drunkenly ran down the hall.  
  
Left gaping at the massive slab of wood they were still sat against, Aramis voiced the only thought currently echoing in his empty, empty head,  
“I get to kill him tomorrow, right?”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks the official end of this little adventure and for all it caused grief, it was worth it for me. I think I should really thank the Beeb for managing to come up with a version of characters I've adored since I was twelve (that's quite some time, I'm the same age as Mis) that really worked for me to the point that they, and the prompt I used, caught my attention enough to drag 25k out of me in 14 days, wedged in between dealing with life and everything else. I'd also just like to say a thank you to all the lovely readers who took the time to comment and say hello. It's one thing to write a lot and slap it online, and quite another to know people enjoy reading it too, so thanks :-)
> 
> Oh and stay tuned for the epilogue tomorrow ;-) (it requires another tag change...FYI)


	15. The Epilogue - 365 days of abject chaos they call normality later...

There were kisses, Aramis sleepily noted, and they were wandering down his back in a little trail of nuzzling warmth that was really quite lovely. So much so, he decided on a cat like, lazy stretch into the bedclothes, that he actually didn’t even mind being woken up by them. Mind you, the low, warm light that was filtering into the room when he finally did crack his eyes open rather told him he’d been allowed a considerable lie in already, so the kisses were just a nice bonus.  
  
“Mornin’…” the rumble of a voice against his ear was followed, deliciously, by the press of a body much larger than his own, hand curving over his hip to settle them into intimate, close contact as Porthos nuzzled at his neck.  
  
A moment’s silent praise for both the Parisian summer being muggy enough to constantly sleep naked and the fact that neither of them were ever willingly dragged out of their bed aside, Aramis let his smile curve up and pressed himself back. If he were honest, it was really just to feel the low purr of pleasure he got from Porthos when his distinctly interested cock found itself nestled against Aramis’ backside. That it also brought a flood of heat low in his own belly was neither here nor there in the sleepy, hazy morning they shared.  
  
“Should probably get up…” Porthos was murmuring with absolutely zero conviction, mouthing his way along Aramis’ shoulder and burying his face against the neck that was deliberately arched to give him all the space he needed.  
  
There should really be a firm protest in there at the need to ever remove themselves from their glorious great bed, but that required a level of effort Aramis wasn’t yet ready to provide. If he were honest, he was actually rather enjoying the muzzy, slow pace since it wasn’t every day they had the time to revel in their mornings. Between Porthos’ teaching and the amount of weddings in the house, more often than not, they were lucky to get to wake up together at all these days, so he resisted the urge to simply attack the delicious body behind him and settled instead.   
  
Clearly it had been the right decision, since Porthos made a pleased sound against his ear, leaving Aramis to reach back, sliding his hand over the dark hip that had begun to roll, lazily, against his arse in silent encouragement. Aramis was nowhere near capable of focusing on anything outside of the press of their bodies together and the soft snick of a bottle top being flipped open, his entire body eagerly twitching in Pavlovian response to the sound.  
  
A murmur of his name that was almost a moan as Porthos’ hand shifted from his hip to slip down, closing a slippery hand in the gentlest of grips around Aramis’ cock in a way that left it’s owner arching on a long sigh of much adored name. There was nothing about this that would ever fade for Aramis and he suspected it was the same for his lover. That was what they were, now, after all. Bound to one another by a lifetime of happy memories and the knowledge that they could have had _this_ , the all encompassing, burning _need_ for the other one, sated so many years before.  
  
Not that it was now either. Even after a year, there were still moments Aramis could barely believe his luck and often, saw the same look reflected in Porthos’ eyes too. There was never going to be a time that one didn’t need the other like the air they were both struggling to draw into their lungs now, bodies moving together with a sinuous grace towards a conclusion they’d hit a million times together.  
  
When Aramis felt slick fingers release his aching cock to slide over his hip and between his thighs, he gripped his hand on Porthos’ hip, leaving nail marks in his wake and causing a low groan against his ear. He matched it with one of his own when he felt them press into him and his body gave way to the familiar touch, letting him move enough to lift his thigh and fist his free hand in the sheets beneath them.  
  
In no hurry, Porthos mouthed his way back down flushed, pink throat. Nibbling and lapping at Aramis’ thundering pulse as his fingers worked, achingly slowly until whatever marker he’d set himself had apparently been reached and his hand slipped free. Aramis was little more than a molten puddle spread out under him when at last he shifted their bodies to align and agonisingly slowly sank into welcoming heat. One of them had moaned, possibly they both had, neither of them was up to caring, not when the gentle ebb and flow of a rhythm had begun and they were too busy wrapped in each other.   
  
Dark fingers spread over the hand Aramis had been gripping Porthos’ hip with, linking them together as stuttering, shuddering groans of names escaped them both and they tumbled over the edge together into breathless oblivion, floating in the burning afterglow and hazy morning light.  
  
They drifted there for a few moments, Porthos delicately easing free of warm, tight body, whispering soothing nonsense into Aramis’ skin at the soft noise of discontent the movement brought and then…  
  
“Guys, you should really get up and…OH _GOD_ MY EYES…”  
  
Aramis was helpless but to bury his face in the pillow and flat out laugh at the flailing sounds of d’Artagnan hastily yanking the door shut again and racing back down the hallway in a flurry of swearing reprimands. Porthos, evidently a great deal more with it than the giggling puddle in his arms, simply saw fit to prop himself on an elbow and cacklingly call after the boy,  
“CALL THIS REVENGE FOR ALL THE TIMES WE’VE WALKED IN ON YOU AND ATHOS!”  
  
“Happy anniversary…” Aramis managed when at last the laughter had faded into merely a wide, utterly contented smile and Porthos had collapsed back to both Aramis’ welcoming body and the mattress beneath them.  
  
“Yeah…” Porthos grinned, their fingers linking together again in the air between them,  
“What you said.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they lived happily, if batshit crazily, ever after...


End file.
